


Those Who Wait

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-22 17:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 112,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22319929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Arthur: gloomily sarcastic loner who spends all his time inside his head.Mikkel: tragically enthusiastic exchange student who never thinks too hard about anything.Height difference: six inches.Love: young.Fate: doomed?
Relationships: Denmark/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 54





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All of my love to Kitty(Katatafish) for putting up with my questions about airports and Diet Coke, and to wecouldbethestars for costume consultations and juice boxes. Thank you! :D
> 
> I needed a brain vacation from my WIPs and my mindset regarding them, so that's why this exists. Here we are, I wrote multichapter DenEng, now I can die x3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> xoxo

He texted ten times the first day. They started off slow, then came faster, more desperate, as the day went on.

It doubled the second day. Repeating himself. Begging. Asking if he could be forgiven.

By the end of the week, he was calling. He left voicemails. Some of them were too long and got cut off. Some of them were only three words.

His friends watched him but said nothing. His mother didn’t even know.

He knew why, but he couldn’t stop.

He had to hear his voice again.


	2. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there too much self-insertion in this fic? Is it set in a small Canadian town?
> 
> :p

It wasn’t bad enough, apparently, that they were living together. That they walked to and from the bus stop together. That they ate breakfast and dinner together. That their rooms were _one wall apart._

“Arthur, you’ll be with Mikkel.”

Well, this settled it once and for all. His mother was actually trying to kill him.

Mrs. Kirkland wasn’t even looking his way, just doing her usual patrol along the front of the room as if she hadn’t just personally pronounced her youngest child’s death sentence. “So, I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve just paired you all off.”

And then she had to go and say it like that. If Arthur sank any lower in his seat, he’d be crouched under his desk. Perhaps that was a good idea, considering one bomb had already been dropped. Where there was one, others were sure to follow.

“You’re all going to write a short story together,” Mrs. Kirkland continued. “One with a beginning, a middle, and an end, preferably. A character arc, and a plot line that peaks at the climax.” A smirk for the stoners in the back. “You know, all of those things you were supposed to learn in middle school.”

Arthur didn’t dare turn around. Mikkel was in the third row, as always. They didn’t have assigned seats, but no one could see past him if he sat toward the front. (The back row stoners were only here for attendance credit; they used him as a shield to hide their texting and snack-passing.) The Danish bastard was probably staring at him right now. He did that a lot at home, when they were in the same room. Which was why Arthur endeavored to make that happen as little as possible.

And now they had to _work together_? His mother was, to borrow a phrase from Scott, taking the piss—and there was precious little piss left to take. _I’ll write a short story about a wicked witch who forced her innocent offspring to fraternize with a hideous demon._

“You all have the outline, and you’ll see that it says a thousand words minimum. Do not write me a thousand-word story. Write me a story. Focus on that, and the words will come. And, in keeping with our theme, I expect this story to have some sort of moral lesson. I’d rather you didn’t do _don’t judge a book by its cover,_ that’s been rather done. Speaking of covers, I expect a full-page front cover with title, author, due date . . .”

_And the hideous demon eats the innocent offspring. It swallows him whole, and the witch learns to think before she gives her orders._

“. . . and artwork that somehow relates to the story. Original artwork. No Instagram filters.”

_No, the demon rips the innocent limb from limb and tears his flesh from his bones and then eats the bones. And the witch watches and laughs because she is wicked, which is what they called sociopaths in the times of witches and demons. The end._

“Alright,” Mrs. Kirkland said, taking her place at her desk. “You’ve got half an hour to brainstorm ideas. Move chairs, move desks, do whatever you’ve got to do.”

What Arthur had to do was leave, but that wasn’t happening. Whatever, he wasn’t getting up. He had the corner seat in the front row; when the bell rang, he was the first one out so he could race ahead of the stampede. He wasn’t sacrificing that for his demonic partner.

The discordant groans of metal legs over tile filled the room. A shadow passed over Arthur’s desk but he ignored it, busying himself with opening his binder to a new sheet of looseleaf. He labelled the top _Short Story Brainstorm._ He even dated it, in the corner, just to kill an extra few seconds. _September 13th, 2017._ For posterity, so they’d know what to put on the death certificate.

“So.” Mikkel was suddenly in his face, straddling a chair backward with his forearms leant on Arthur’s desk. “What’s the big ideas?”

Here was the injustice of it all. Arthur wanted to stare back at him, to show he wasn’t the only one with a set of eyes and an attitude, but that felt like surrender, not defense or offense. It was like admitting Mikkel was worth looking at. Which he wasn’t. He was too tall, _way_ too tall, and not even in a good way; it was like he’d grown faster than his body knew how to handle, so he was left over-stretched, lanky, awkwardly folding himself into spaces designed for normally proportioned human beings.

“I don’t know,” he replied, just short of snappy. “Do you think I just sit around thinking up short story ideas all day?”

“Maybe.” Mikkel tilted his head a little to one side. “You write a lot.”

“No, I don’t.” He _tried_ to write a lot, but nothing much came of it. If Mikkel thought he was going to talk to him about that, he was sorely mistaken. There was nothing more intimate than art. “It needs a moral. So we might as well start with that.” He angled the binder toward Mikkel. He might as well start dictating early, so he wouldn’t set a precedent for pulling both their weight. “You can draw the brainstorm.”

Slight hesitation, then Mikkel picked up a pen and drew a cloud in the center of the page with a surprisingly loose, deft hand. Blue eyes lifted to Arthur, expectant.

Arthur waited long enough that it became awkward. “Aren’t you going to write _morals_ in the middle? So we know what we’re brainstorming?”

Mikkel smiled, lackadaisical. “Nah. We’ll remember.”

 _He’s already this lazy. Why me?_ Arthur took the pen from him, snatching it by the tip so their hands couldn’t brush. “Fine. I’ll do it, then. We have to pass in all of the rough draft stuff.”

“Why?”

“Because it says so on the outline.” Now he was snappy. “Didn’t you read it?”

Mikkel shrugged again, still smiling. His mouth was too big for his face, that was another thing. Probably his jaw unhinged, like a snake. None of him fit together properly.

Not that Arthur was built like a Greek—or Norse, ha—god, but at least everything melded together more or less. Short legs, short fingers, short body. _Short temper._ He was just waiting on a growth spurt. He’d been waiting approximately five years.

“Morals,” Arthur said as he wrote it. He thought about whipping out some of his elegant cursive—everyone had been jealous of it back in elementary school, because his mother had insisted he master it before printing—but it would look strange in this informal setting. Not everyone could read cursive, too; he wanted Mikkel to have the _ability_ to read their work, even if he lacked the ambition. Although, there was a thing. “Wait, are you literate in English?”

Now Mikkel raised his eyebrows. “Am I literate.”

Arthur glared at him. “Just because you can speak a language doesn’t mean you can read or write it.”

 _Right?_ He could speak French, sort of, a bit, but he needed a dictionary if he was going to spell everything correctly on his worksheets. He wasn’t being racist or anything. Was Danish a race? People around here didn’t really look like that. He’d heard of the stereotype of the _Scandinavian look_ , willowy and fair, winter blue eyes and hair like vanilla ice cream, but he hadn’t thought people like that actually existed.

“The exchange program doesn’t let you come to Canada if you can’t understand English or French,” Mikkel told him. “So, yeah. I’m literate enough.”

“Fine. Good.” Arthur turned his attention to the paper, before he made a bigger idiot of himself. “Morals. Appearances can be deceiving? No, that’s too close to judging a book by its cover. The pen is mightier than the sword? I don’t know if that counts . . .”

When he was writing, he didn’t think in terms of morals or themes. He just thought of things that would be cool. Like dragons, and the riding thereof. Or apocalypse scenarios where all the athletic people died and it was only the clever ones left to sort things out. Or incubim—the sexy sort of demons—who fell in love and died because they wouldn’t kill their swain with soul-sucking fornication.

All of his notebooks were kept out of plain sight, but the one with incubus scenes had a different hidey hole all to itself. The last thing he needed was one of his brothers unearthing a handwritten anthology of scenes in which a sex demon proclaimed his love and lust for a human. Well, it probably wouldn’t be life-ending.

It was just that both parties in that particular story were male. Just like all of the couples he’d made.

His family probably knew. They had to assume, at least. Look at him. The only friends he had were through the GSA, for crying out loud—the GSA which he had helped found, in this tiny school, by the way. That wasn’t even crying out loud, that was _sobbing._

“Good things,” Mikkel said, breaking him from his reverie, “come to those who wait.”

Arthur blinked. “Yeah, okay. That could work.” He drew a line from the cloud and wrote it down. That one could work. It could be something meta, something literal and metaphorical at the same time. Like some sort of man whose job it was to polish a big hourglass, Father Time imagery. That was only half of it, though; what was he waiting for?

“What if it was about some person in a hospital, right,” Arthur said, fast and low as if someone might be listening in, “and they’re lying there, waiting, and then they die. So the good thing that comes to them is death.”

Now it was Mikkel’s turn to blink. He did it a couple times, then laughed. One of those laughs that sent the head tipping back and the eyes squinting with the force of it.

It was loud enough that Arthur winced, then scowled. “What’s funny about that?”

“Death is a good thing to you?” Mikkel wasn’t laughing now, but his eyes were still crinkly in the corners. “Is that why you wear black?”

 _“No.”_ He was not goth. There were goth girls in grade nine—they walked around with dead eyes, black hair dye caked around their ears, and earbuds blasting BVB—and they provided a handy guide on how not to present himself. Besides, he wore things other than black. He just didn’t wear things like _polo shirts,_ which Mikkel evidently thought he could get away with. He would look like a substitute gym teacher, if he didn’t look like a model in a sportswear magazine. “Death is a good thing to this character in this story, because they’re suffering. They’re dying slowly, but they’re waiting patiently for it.”

Mikkel rubbed his chin with his thumb. He shaved, every morning; Arthur heard the faint hiss of the little hairs just poking their heads out again. “I don’t know. I think that’s backward.”

“It’s not about depression, if that’s what you’re talking—”

“No, no, no.” He waved a hand instead of shaking his head. His hands were always a jolt. They had long fingers and big knuckles and veins over the top. Manly hands. Arthur had to hold his hands at his sides for a while to get veins to stand out on them like that. “I mean, the way you did it. It’s backward. It only makes sense if you know what the moral is. But the moral is supposed to make sense from the story.”

For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to Arthur that a student who had qualified to study abroad might be intelligent.

“Well,” he said.

Then he tried again: “I see what you’re saying, but I still think it could work. It just needs something else. Conflict. He needs a reason to wait, instead of just dying quickly or doing something else. So it’s a sacrifice he has to make, the waiting. That way the story can stand on its own.”

Mikkel regarded him thoughtfully. “A reason to wait. Like another person.”

Inspiration bloomed. “Yes, exactly. Like someone they care about. Someone who’s got something they need help—” He pointed his pen at Mikkel. “Someone they met in the hospital bed next to theirs. The other person is getting better, but the main one is dying, and he could just give in but he deals with the pain because he wants to give the other one hope so he’ll get better.”

Mikkel smiled again, but quirked an eyebrow in surprise. “They’re both guys?”

Arthur froze. Then he fiddled with his pen and shifted in his seat and uncrossed his ankles under the seat, so he wouldn’t seem like he had frozen and was now thawed. “One can be a girl. Or they can both be girls. Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to be a love story, anyway, you’re the one who brought it there.”

A tiny furrow appeared between Mikkel’s brows, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just _now._ You implied it.” Arthur circled _good things come to those who wait_ , just to give himself something to do, and wrote _hospital/dying_ underneath. “We’ll stick with that one, then.”

“Okay.” Mikkel stretched his arms over his head. Arthur kept his eyes on the desk. “Well, this was good. We should do the writing like this, too, just share ideas. Then you can write it down. Your writing is way neater than mine.”

Arthur might have a baby face, but he was not born yesterday. “No, we can figure out the different scenes, and then you can write some and I can write some. Fifty-fifty.” They weren’t being graded individually, but he didn’t care; let his mother see how stark their writing styles were against each other and understand how painful this process was. “It doesn’t matter if your writing’s messy. We’ll be typing it all up anyway.”

Mikkel’s smile faded. “How is it any different? Why does it matter who’s writing it down? It’ll flow better if we do it together.”

This logic made no sense, but of course it didn’t; he was grabbing for a justification of sloth, and none was to be found. “I’m not doing this all by myself. You’re not using me for marks.”

“I’m not trying to _use_ you—”

“Then write your half, just like I’m going to.”

The frustration in his eyes started to look an awful lot like anger; when Mikkel stood up suddenly, Arthur startled, half-expecting the hideous demon prophecy to come true. But he didn’t eat him, just picked up his chair and carried it—one-handed, like there was no risk of strained wrist involved—back to his desk. Arthur watched Mikkel shove the outline into his backpack without even folding it. _Excellent plan, Mum,_ he thought, _you’ve let a six-foot Viking descendant with anger issues move in with us._ She glanced over, and he shook his head grimly at her. _You’ve doomed us all._

Mrs. Kirkland ignored his misgivings, as usual, and raised her voice to address the class over the inevitable zippers-and-velcro medley that played two minutes to the bell.

“I’ll give you two more in-class work periods, but after that you’ll have to find your own time to finish things up. Don’t stress too much over this; it’s only the first project of the year. It may be a nightmare now, but by the end of all this, it will be a fond memory.”

Was she looking at him? She usually was, when she said pointed saccharine nonsense like that.

Not everything was a short story. His life wasn’t wrapped up in a tidy bow with a teachable moral and a graded rubric. Contrary to his mother’s popular belief, not everything had a lesson to be learned from it. Not everything was paid off in the third act. Sometimes, the curtains were just curtains. _Sometimes, life just sucks._

The bell rang. Arthur threw his bag over his shoulder and bounded for the stairwell, before he could be caught up in the current.

* * *

Thankfully, the rest of his classes either didn’t contain Mikkel or they weren’t doing cursed forced-partner work, so Arthur didn’t have to talk to him for the rest of the school day. Then he remembered this was Wednesday; Mikkel had chemistry last period, and the lab was right next to one of the doors. Arthur could never beat him to the bus on Wednesdays.

Their school was barely four hundred students, so the buses were fast or famine. Some of them only had a dozen kids. Some of them—like the one that went by Arthur’s subdivision—were packed to the brim. It was always too many to combine routes but not enough to justify another bus. In earlier grades, Arthur had to cram three to a seat with other petrified preteens or risk venturing past the wheel hump and asking one of the big kids to share their seat. Now that he was a _big kid_ , more or less, Arthur usually got a seat to himself. He’d counted, the first day of school: there were enough for the middle schoolers to double up in the front half of the bus and for the high schoolers to sit comfortably in the back. The only issues came when someone was throwing a birthday party and invited note-bearing guests or the couples were having relationship drama and didn’t want to sit together.

Or when a Danish exchange student arrived a week late and disrupted the natural order.

Arthur pushed his way past the middle schoolers—all talking about whatever video game they would be playing tonight instead of considering their future career paths—and immediately slowed so he could scan. Every seat taken. Someone must be bringing friends home; they were already rowdy back there, and only three seats had space for another human. One held a guy who was having a noisy conversation with someone two seats away. One held a girl who basically took up the entirety of her seat, between herself and her bag and the late lunch she had spread out. She had an AP class at lunchtime; whenever Arthur glanced into the student lounge, she was in there with headphones on and papers covering a whole table. If Arthur sat with her he’d end up having to hold her thermos of tomato soup for her.

Which left him with one option. He didn’t hesitate any longer. He just stared pointedly down at Mikkel’s bookbag until he tugged it down onto the floor between his legs. Arthur sat down, swinging his own bag round onto his lap. He stared straight ahead. He should’ve had his earbuds ready, but they were somewhere in the bottom of his backpack. He didn’t want to rifle through it with Mikkel right beside him. Their elbows might touch, or he might see the leftover cookie Arthur would now have to save to eat once he made it to his bedroom.

The bus door shut and off they went. Arthur realized why people didn’t perch on the edge of seats normally; every corner had him nearly toppling into the aisle. He tensed his thighs until they quivered at a particularly long turn. He’d probably be sore tomorrow; this was more exercise than he’d gotten all summer.

Mikkel was an athlete, of course. He spent all his lunch periods outside, doing sporty things. Arthur saw him out the library window sometimes, kicking a football around with Gilbert and others blessed by puberty. Gilbert used to be the tallest of the juniors, but Mikkel outdid him. It was a little ridiculous. He’d been sitting diagonal before Arthur invaded, but now his knees were digging into the back of the seat in front of them. The girls sitting there probably would’ve turned around to complain, if they were brave enough. _They probably have crushes on him._ It wouldn’t surprise Arthur. He was exotic.

Scott and Liam and Dylan were old enough to be exotic. Arthur only had the accent secondhand.

Not that he wanted to bring girls home and _Mum we’re just working on the essay let me close the door_ like his brothers had done. Not an appealing lifestyle. How about that: he hadn’t had friends over since his tenth birthday. Francis and Gilbert and Antonio had come. They used to play together all the time. Then the hormones kicked in, and everything went to shit.

“How was math?”

Arthur scowled automatically. “Disgusting.”

Mikkel surprised him by laughing. “You don’t like math?”

“I don’t like the math we’re doing right now. I hate graphs. We have graphing calculators. We don’t need to draw like children.”

“So it’s not math you don’t like, it’s drawing.”

“. . . Well. I hate both. I can do _some_ math.” The conversation drooped into silence, so Arthur figured he should be polite. Mikkel let him have the seat, after all. He technically could have just ignored Arthur and forced him to go deaf with the shouter or wait on the diner. “So. How was chem?”

“Good. I don’t mind chem.”

“Is it different? In English?”

“The words are, yes. The way things go together is the same.”

Arthur glanced at him. His anger seemed to have faded. Maybe he’d accepted that Arthur wasn’t to be trifled with. _Good._ Their talking lulled again. This was what had happened when Mikkel first moved in and Mrs. Kirkland had encouraged Arthur to break the ice. Nothing ever went beyond a question, an answer, a nod, then silence. Or, if English class was anything to go by, arguing and glaring. If friends were easy to make and keep, he’d still have Francis. Arthur wasn’t a people person. Random Danes were not exceptions to the rule.

“So,” Mikkel said, as if he’d read his mind, “we’ve lived together for nine days and this is the most we’ve talked.”

Arthur watched him, waiting for a point.

“It makes me wonder if you don’t like me,” he remarked, but he looked amused.

“I don’t know you. Of course I don’t like you.”

Mikkel laughed again. There was never any lead-in to his laughs, never a rising chuckle or a wheeze. He was the truest form of bursting out laughing. His grins would’ve leapt clean off his face if they had a suitable landing zone. “At least you’re direct. Is that because you’re not from here? No one else will say what they think here.”

Arthur wasn’t so sure about that. Canadians would tell you what they thought if you caught them at the right time. Like if you didn’t notice the _keep right except to pass_ signs and mistook the other lane for an exit. Arthur didn’t have his own car yet, but he had his license. He wasn’t in any hurry to put it to use.

“I am from here,” he said. “I was born here.”

The only one. He didn’t even have the confidence boost of being the only one native to the language. If anything, it was a disadvantage; he had two different Englishes to keep track off.

“Oh. You sound like them.”

“Yes. You know.” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “ _Them_.”

Mikkel snickered. “Yeah.” Then, so abrupt Arthur wondered if that was even a real laugh, Mikkel was serious. “Listen,” he said, “I just want to apologize. For English.”

“Your grammar isn’t that bad.”

Mikkel blinked, then shook his head. “No, not—” A smile snuck out, a prison break of straight teeth. “No, I mean, for English class. I was a prick. So, sorry.”

“Oh.” Arthur wondered who’d taught him how to swear. Well, the first thing they’d done was look for naughty words in the _dictionairre_ , so maybe it wasn’t that big a mystery. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m not going to tattle on you.”

“Tattle.” He squinted. He pronounced all three Ts, which was odd since he seemed to be making an effort to slur the other twenty-five letters of the alphabet into one. Arthur always thought Scandinavian accents were bouncy, but not Danish apparently.

“I’m not going to tell a teacher that you were mean to me.” It was bad enough having a parent on the school staff. He barely had a reputation to lose, but he wasn’t throwing it away and earning _crybaby_ status.

He was exaggerating, mostly. Nobody actively hated him. He was just ignored, so he kept to himself. Or maybe he kept to himself because he was ignored. It was a cozy arrangement, either way. Potentially unbreakable. There was only one more year of high school left anyway. Did it really matter if he had someone to sit with in the cafeteria or not?

“I’m not apologizing so I won’t get in trouble.” Mikkel ducked his head a little closer, so Arthur had no choice but to look into his eyes or physically turn his head away. Arthur looked. “I’m apologizing because I feel bad for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Arthur hugged his bag tighter to his chest and glowered at the zipper that never closed fully.

“Now you’re not saying what you think.”

“Thanks for reminding me I’m pitiful,” Arthur snapped. “As if I didn’t already know.”

“Now you’re not saying what _I_ think.”

“What are you even talking about?” Everything was regret. Tomorrow he was getting a ride home with his mother; he didn’t care if people gave him weird looks. Which they wouldn’t. Which was almost worse.

Mikkel huffed a sigh, frustrated again. “Listen to me. I’m not good at talking. I’m even worse at talking to you.”

Arthur glared at him sidelong. He could feel his cheeks burning and he hated it.

“I never see you,” he continued. “You don’t talk with anybody. You don’t have friends.”

Arthur opened his mouth to say _thanks for reminding me_ or _I’m not friendly_ or _It’s their loss, not mine._

Mikkel held up his hand. “Let me finish. I feel bad for you. You should have friends. You’re nice to talk to.”

Now Arthur raised two incredulous eyebrows.

“You are! You’re smart. And you’re funny.” He smiled. “You made me laugh a lot.”

“I don’t know if you know this,” Arthur said, “but you feeling bad for me doesn’t make me feel better.”

“No,” Mikkel agreed, back to business. “But it will make you better if I am your friend.”

_Excuse me?_

“I wanted to ask you first,” Mikkel said, oddly rushed. “When I got here. But you didn’t give me any chances.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re too good with words. You make me, I don’t know. Nervous, I think.”

 _I’m too good?_ I _make_ you _nervous?_

“So I’ll ask you now.” Mikkel twisted so his back was against the window, arm bent to offer a hand in the limited space between them. “Friends?”

Arthur stared at him. Then at his man hand. Then back at his face again, such a contradiction: matter-of-fact, open in his affable pleasure, but at the same time hiding fear behind that sunny smile. Arthur wondered again about Mikkel running to and fro with Gilbert and Antonio. Maybe they weren’t close; maybe they were just congregating by necessity, the same way Arthur and the other bookish types sat silently in the library, sharing the room but never connection. It had been less than two weeks since Mikkel arrived, after all. He couldn’t be BFFs with anyone yet.

 _I made him come to a new school all by himself._ Arthur could have volunteered to show him around, could have been the diplomat between Mikkel and his culture shock, but he’d been too caught up in their staring contests and the feeling it sent swirling through his belly to consider that perhaps Mikkel’s confidence was painted on. Maybe that was why he’d snapped in English, too. _You’re too good with words._ Was Mikkel self-conscious, then? He wanted Arthur to do the writing because then he wouldn’t be judged lacking in comparison? He—with his too-big smiles and his too-tall hair and his too-polo shirt—actually cared what other people thought of him?

Perhaps they had something in common, then.

Arthur hesitated a final moment, then placed his hand into Mikkel’s. He braced for pressure but was met with only a light shake and release before Mikkel faced forward again, relieved, as if that was that and now life could go on as God intended.

Now it was Arthur watching the side of Mikkel’s face. “Do you . . . Have you got other friends, back home?”

Mikkel nodded. “Two good friends. They’re dating now, though. I’m a third wheel.”

“Ah.” Arthur pictured another strapping Viking guy and a girl with braided hair. “Do you still talk to them?”

Another nod. “Sometimes.”

“. . . Do you miss them? And home?”

Mikkel slowly turned to look at Arthur, and for the first time he saw all the room there was for sadness in those blue eyes. Softly, Mikkel echoed, “Sometimes.”

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. Then he unzipped his bookbag, took out his cookie, broke it, and offered half to Mikkel.

A surprised smile quirked his lips. “You don’t have to give me that.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow in warning.

Mikkel accepted his gift graciously. “Thank you.”

Arthur gently knocked their cookie halves together. “Cheers.”

Mikkel’s eyes were getting squinty again. “Skål.”

Arthur picked the word up tentatively. “Skohl.”

Now a grin spread its arms out wide. “See, I told you, too good with words. You’re a natural.”

Arthur didn’t look at him, electing to focus on eating his cookie in several small bites rather than swallowing it whole like Mikkel had. He hadn’t decided yet if the compliments were genuine, but that could be a later problem. For now—there was nothing better to wash oatmeal raisin down with than a nice stroke to the ego.

* * *

Friendship, as it turned out, meant having a chaperone. On top of walking Arthur to the bus stop, Mikkel now insisted on walking him into the school, to his locker, and to classes they shared. Then, after they had to split up so Arthur could go to history and Mikkel could go to math, Mikkel was waiting for Arthur at the bottom of the stairs. He walked him to the cafeteria, and then he _sat with him while they ate lunch._

Then it was the moment of truth. Gilbert’s herd barrelled out the cafeteria door, galloping to the soccer field for their daily merriment. Arthur watched Mikkel watch them. He half-expected one of them to call for _Mick!_ over their shoulder, but that didn’t happen. They just overflowed out the door and it closed behind them, and the chatter of the cafeteria continued with significantly less volume now that those boisterous heathens were gone.

“So.” Mikkel turned to Arthur. “Are we going to the library?”

It took Arthur a moment to overcome his surprise. “Er, I guess. I am. But I’m just working on math. I’m falling behind.”

Mikkel nodded, stood. The chairs were closer to stools than anything after the school had done a renovation; they were high up enough that even Mikkel’s feet couldn’t touch the floor. “I’ll help you,” he said, shouldering his bag. “I can draw the graphs for you.”

Arthur stared. “You don’t have to.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mikkel put his hands into his pockets, waiting expectantly.

Arthur hopped down. _Fine, then._ He led the way up to the library and straight to the table in the back. The regulars were here, the mousy girls and the boys playing _educational_ computer games. A couple girls looked up in acknowledgement when Arthur passed by, then did a double-take at the sight of Mikkel. Arthur caught a glimpse of a Danish smile in the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look for the girls’ reaction. He didn’t want to see anyone swooning over his new friend.

That was still so alien. To look at Mikkel and think _friend._ It wasn’t unpleasant, just . . . unreal.

They sat. Arthur spread out his textbook and binder. Mikkel scooted his chair closer; the legs hissed over the carpet. Arthur didn’t look away from the papers, because he was pretty sure they’d knock noses if he did. He couldn’t smell Mikkel’s breath, but he was still paranoid that Mikkel could smell his. He breathed through his nose instead.

“Okay,” Mikkel said once he’d scanned the work Arthur had been assigned. “I think your whole class is behind ours. We did this stuff last week.”

“Did you do it right?”

Mikkel sat back a little so Arthur could see his smirk. “I am a math genius.” He picked up one of Arthur’s pencils and took out a sheet of grid paper. “Are you a freak?”

Ridiculous as it sounded, fear pounded Arthur’s heart. “Excuse me?”

“I’m forgetting, it’s . . .” He tapped the eraser end of the pencil on the table. “Clean freak?”

“Neat freak,” Arthur corrected. He almost trembled in relief. If he made this much adrenaline just from words, imagine how much he would produce if a real emergency happened. He could lift a car off somebody, probably. “I like everything having its own place.”

Mikkel’s lips tugged outward, amused. “You have a special graph paper spot.”

“Exactly. Now I know where it is, at all times. I don’t have to waste time faffing about trying to find it.”

“Faffing?”

Arthur had to duck his head to keep from laughing at that one. _Feffing._ “Just means wasting time, basically.” He focused on his textbook. Nothing like quadratic functions to make a smile fade. “I hate all of this. I’m never going to do this again in my life.”

Mikkel hummed in assent beside him.

Arthur copied another equation down and told his brain to solve it. His brain scowled. English majors didn’t have to worry about parabolas, did they? “It should be optional,” he ranted on. “For the fucking brainiacs who want to be engineers and things. I’m just an innocent bystander in all this.”

Mikkel hummed again.

It occurred to Arthur that he was probably being stared at again. He turned quickly, before he could change his mind. Mikkel wasn’t watching him. He had a pencil in each hand; one he was drawing with, the other he was chewing on. He was two questions ahead of Arthur, drawing the functions he was supposed to be solving for.

“Wh—that’s cheating,” Arthur spluttered. “I didn’t find the answers yet.”

“That’s okay. I’m helping you.”

“ _Yes_ , but if I get the answer wrong, then the teacher will know someone else did the graphing for me. Or he’ll think I just looked in the back of book.”

Mikkel shook his head. “You won’t get it wrong. I’ll help with that too.”

 _That’s it._ Arthur put down his pencil. “What do you want from me?”

Now Mikkel’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Nobody just randomly offers to help with math. Not unless they’re friends.”

“We are friends—”

“No, we just met each other. You don’t know anything about me, and I don’t know anything about you. You must be doing this to get something.” Arthur thought he might’ve sounded a little bit hysterical, but he blamed it on being in the library and having to tuck his voice down. Mikkel’s was deep enough that it turned into a rumble you could still hear across the room when he whispered. Arthur’s was too thin; it rasped and cracked and made him sound emotional. But he wasn’t emotional. He just wanted answers. “Do you want money or something, for tutoring me? You’re not after money so you can buy cigarettes, are you?”

Mikkel blinked. The pencil he’d been chewing fell out of his mouth. His eyes went serious. “I don’t want money. I don’t want cigarettes. I don’t smoke.”

“Well, good. I—” 

_“I don’t want anything,”_ Mikkel cut in. “Arthur. You have to listen.”

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it, shrinking a little. _Sorry._

“I don’t want anything,” Mikkel repeated, softer this time. “I just want to be your friend. So we don’t have to be alone. So we can help each other.”

Arthur’s hackles bristled again, despite everything. “Help each other? So are we still going to be friends after this English assignment is done?”

“Yes? Why wouldn’t we be?”

He did look genuinely confused that Arthur would ask that. But still . . . “You’re not alone, though. You have Gilbert and Antonio and Francis and that lot.”

“I’m not friends with Francis,” Mikkel said immediately, with a darkness to his words that had Arthur’s eyebrows rising. “He’s not . . . I don’t know how to say. He’s just not my friend. Not my kind.”

Arthur nodded. He could see that. Francis was charming, when he wanted to be, but he didn’t play soccer with the rest. He was probably in the art room right now with Lovino and Feliciano, getting in more precious painting time. It was a bit weird, that Francis and Gilbert and Antonio were still friends even though Francis was so different from them now. Arthur was different from them too, but they hadn’t held on to him. What had Francis done that Arthur hadn’t?

Maybe it was the facial hair. Francis had been the first of their grade to get stubble, and it wasn’t even patchy anymore. He looked like a grown man. _And_ he managed to have long hair without it looking greasy. He was a miracle of biology. Arthur sometimes wished they were still friends just so he could ask him how he existed so easily.

 _Well._ No, he probably wouldn’t do that. That would be like surrender.

“Gil and Toni and the rest aren’t really my friends either,” Mikkel went on. “We just play football. They don’t know me. I know more about you than I know about them.”

Arthur perked his ears up at that one. “Oh? What do you know about me?”

“I know you’re a neat freak. And you like writing and reading and English. And you don’t like getting up in the morning. And you don’t like crowds.”

Arthur could feel something happening to his heart, but he didn’t know if it was good or if he was just dying. “How do you know I don’t like crowds?”

“You always leave the classroom first,” Mikkel replied. “And your locker is at the very end of the hall. And you sit on the edge of the room always.”

Arthur looked down at his books. Now he knew what the feeling was. It was tears, working their way up. They weren’t coming out. He didn’t care if he had to gouge out his eyes, he was _not_ crying at school.

“And you like unicorns.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked up in surprise. Mikkel smiled kindly at him.

“You have a unicorn sticker on your English binder.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t just a unicorn sticker. It was a rainbow unicorn sticker. And it was only two centimeters across, on the _inside_ of his binder. He’d thought it was tiny enough that no one would notice. Maybe he’d only gotten away with it because no one had really looked at him until now.

“I like unicorns too,” Mikkel offered.

Arthur fiddled with his pencil. It was different, talking to the kids in the GSA. It was enough to bond with them just for the shared experience of being different. But this was way more personal. Letting himself be known, it was so vulnerable. But the alternative . . .

“What’s unicorn in Danish?” he asked eventually, more of a mumble than anything.

“Enhjørning,” replied Mikkel.

Arthur’s turn to blink. “Okay, well, I’m not even going to attempt that.”

Mikkel chuckled. “You should. I like you speaking Danish.” He picked up his pencils again. “Do you know what to do now?”

Arthur looked at him, his eyes and his lips, then at the equation he’d written down. “I think so.” He touched graphite to looseleaf, then let his eyes trail back up to Mikkel’s. “But maybe you could just. Tell me if I do something wrong.”

Mikkel smiled.

* * *

“So, Mikkel,” said Mrs. Kirkland, “how are you settling in?”

“Very well, thank you.” Mikkel was always polite with her, like he was afraid of getting kicked out. Maybe he was. Arthur would be paranoid about etiquette too if he was stuck with strangers in a different culture.

“I’m glad. Do you have any concerns about school or anything like that?”

Arthur was a little surprised his mother was asking a personal question like that right in front of him, but then again—he was used to being invisible. His brothers had always taken up all her attention, when they still lived at home. Sharing a room with them felt like they didn’t leave enough oxygen for him to breathe. When they left, it was a relief; having dinners alone with his mum were blissfully quiet, peaceful blessings. Now Mikkel was here, though, and he wasn’t loud, but he was another distraction.

 _Whatever._ He didn’t need to be the center of attention. He chased a pea around his plate with his fork.

“No concerns. It’s easier now that I have Arthur with me a lot of the time.”

He looked up, scandalized. His mother was smiling proudly at both of them; Mikkel was amused on the other side of the table. _You traitor._

“I’m _so_ glad to hear that,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “I’d hoped you boys would take a liking to each other.”

Why did she have to phrase it like that? They didn’t like each other. Well, they _did_ , but—you couldn’t just go around saying things like that. Did she have no understanding of nuance? She’d given him the _if people don’t want to be your friend that’s their own loss_ talk multiple times, and yet here she was playing Matchmaker. Insanity.

Mikkel smiled. Arthur recognized this as his fake smile, the one that curled up in the corners long before it should have. The first rule of Mikkel Smiles: they went out before they went up. Now that Arthur was allowed to look at him, he could’ve majored in those smiles. With a minor in his laugh. _The backward head tip is optional, but eye corner crinkles are a staple._

When the eternity of dinner was over, Arthur followed the steps of his routine and headed upstairs. Today, instead of watching TV in the living room or lingering in the kitchen to do his homework at the table, Mikkel followed him.

“I’ve never been in your room,” he said.

Arthur stood against his door. His mother hadn’t been in his room in a while, either. He wracked his memory, trying to remember if there was anything incriminating within plain sight. There were no flags or anything in there, that was certain, but he might have a spare GSA poster lying around or something. Not that it was a mystery that he was in the GSA, but if Mikkel started talking about it . . .

Mikkel observed him a moment, then said, “We could sit in my room instead. I just wanted to finish up the math with you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He’d forgotten about the math, actually. He fetched his books and brought them into Mikkel’s room, which was really Dylan’s room. It still had his _365 Days of Wildlife_ calendar on the wall, unchanged since August. He’d taken his hamster—Ham IV—with him when he moved into his dorm. He claimed he hadn’t picked that university simply because they allowed small pets, but Arthur would believe that when a polygraph was brought in. Then again, it would be a little odd for a veterinary course to forbid furry friends.

The bed seemed like a big commitment, so Arthur sat cross-legged on the floor. Mikkel gave him a bit of a weird look, but he joined him, awkwardly folding himself up like origami with legal paper. They sat with their backs against the bed and worked on the math homework until Arthur’s eyes were exhausted and his brain wanted to leave _x_ to solve its own damned problems. The assigned questions were done. Arthur leant his head back on the mattress and closed his eyes, sighing in defeat.

“That’s how I feel when I try to write,” Mikkel said, nudging Arthur’s foot with his own. Their legs were stretched out in front of them now. Arthur didn’t appreciate the difference in length.

“I’m sure you’re fine. You’re perfect at everything else.”

“No, I’m not.” He nudged Arthur’s foot again. “I can’t write or read like you can. And I can’t balance like you can when we do stretches in gym.”

“That’s because you’re top-heavy, with all that hair.”

Mikkel ran a self-conscious hand through his hair, and Arthur laughed. “Your hair is fine.”

“My hair—”

“Is _fine._ It’s good. I like it.”

Now he smiled. “You like my hair?”

Arthur hugged his knees to his chest. “Yes, I like your hair. Stop smiling at me like that.”

“Why? Of course I smile at you. You make me happy.”

 _Stop it. You’re murdering me._ “All of this is temporary. I wouldn’t get so attached, if I were you.”

A bit of disappointment did enter those blue eyes, but they remained bright. “Even if it’s temporary, it’s still good. The memory is happy.”

Arthur shook his head.

“I like your hair, too. By the way.” Mikkel’s hand came close to his hair, but he didn’t touch it, just let his hand drop between them. “Why are you so gloomy?”

“I don’t know.” He really didn’t. He’d wondered that himself, a lot. No amount of introspection on the bus had led to any solid theories. He was gloomy because he was alone, and vice versa. But what had started it all? Or—the old familiar razor—had he just been born defective? He grabbed the pencil out of Mikkel’s hand. “You chewed another one!”

“Sorry.” He was grinning, though. “It’s good for thinking. You should try.”

Arthur gave him a look that had him giggling. “Why are you so happy?” he asked. “Maybe I’m not gloomy, you’re just happier than you should be. You smile way more than normal people.”

“I’m Danish. We’re all happy.”

Arthur stared at him sidelong.

“Not all,” Mikkel allowed. “But a lot. And I like to be happy.”

That was a rather nothing thing to say, though. Who didn’t like to be happy? And it wasn’t like Arthur was bawling into his pillow every night. He went to class and he got good grades and he was fine. When birds chirped at him on his way to the bus stop he smiled. Did he need any more than that?

“And,” said Mikkel, “I like sharing happy with other people.”

Arthur thought of Mikkel’s friends in Denmark, the ones who had made him a third wheel. He rested his chin between his knees. It was silly to get his hopes up. He said it himself: this was temporary. Mikkel would move back at the end of the year and Arthur would be by himself again. Then he’d graduate, and be off to a fresh start. Maybe he would make friends in uni. Or maybe he was just kidding himself.

“Tsk. I don’t know what to do with you, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t know what to do with himself, either. “I like how you say my name.”

He never got the _th_ sound right. It turned into just a T, or sometimes an F.

“You are strange,” Mikkel told him.

_I should get up. I should go to my room. I should—_

Mikkel put his arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “I like that.”

Arthur froze. Then, slowly, one millimeter at a time, he leaned into Mikkel’s side. He felt the warmth of him, the solidity of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close to someone. Once you reached a certain age, you were only allowed to touch the person you were dating. Any other embraces were for special occasions, like weddings or long farewells or funerals. And even then, Arthur was a man now, or so they’d told him in health class last year. He wasn’t expected to want physical affection. He’d thought, for the longest time, that he hated to be touched.

Now he knew that was definitely false. He wanted to feel Mikkel’s other arm around him, holding him close. He imagined straddling Mikkel’s thighs, being taller than him for once. He imagined Mikkel’s hands on his back, his shirt riding up . . . Mikkel on top of him, on the bed . . .

Arthur’s eyes flew wide open and he leapt up. “I just—remembered, I need to do something. For tomorrow. For bio.”

Mikkel sat up straight, watching him hurry across the room. “We could do it together.” 

_No, we couldn’t._ “It’s not a big thing, it’s just. I’ll just go do it. Myself.” He closed the door behind him, plunged into his own bedroom, and flopped onto his bed. Apparently he needed to stop wearing skinny jeans, if _this_ was going to be a regular thing. And why on earth was it happening _now_? Nobody ever talked about it anymore; they’d left it behind in ninth grade. _What are you, some kind of pervert?_

Arthur let his face fall into his pillow. He would have groaned, too, if he didn’t think Mikkel would hear it next door.

Murdered.

* * *

“So who are the characters?” Mikkel asked.

“Stop chewing on that,” Arthur said, taking the pencil from him and wiping it off on Mikkel’s thigh. “If you aren’t going to write with it, don’t pick it up.”

Mikkel pouted, so Arthur hit him with the pencil, right on the knee.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, stop, it didn’t hurt,” Arthur said, knowing full well he was being indulged.

“It did. You are vicious.” Mikkel rubbed his knee, indulgently. “Do you want the main character to be a guy or a girl?”

 _Or just a person._ Arthur didn’t want to get into that. He still hadn’t gotten into the vibe of writing characters with they/them pronouns. Not that he’d gotten into the vibe of writing in general. He’d never finished anything. Always just scenes. Which was why there was no way Mikkel wasn’t writing his half of the story himself. Arthur couldn’t be trusted to finish it. They would both fail.

“It really doesn’t matter. And if we write it in first person, we can leave it ambiguous.”

“But shouldn’t we know?”

“No, we don’t have to know.” Arthur was great at not knowing things about his characters. He’d been taught _let the reader do the work_ in middle school and taken it to heart.

“What if someone says their name?”

“It can be a unisex name.” The tell-tale squint. “A name guys and girls can have. Like, I dunno. Alex. Or Jean. Something like that.”

“Okay.” Mikkel rested his elbows on the edge of Arthur’s desk. “Who is the other one? The loved one?”

Arthur still had the image of them when the idea had first bloomed into his head, the hollow-cheeked, fair-haired sufferer in bed, the blue-eyed hopeful in the next bed over. Both of them boys, or men would probably be better descriptors. Young men, one dying, one surviving. But no, the more ambiguous, the better. _The safer?_ Same thing.

“They’ll need a name.” Arthur looked up a baby names site on his phone. “Pink or blue?”

“Blue.”

Arthur stilled. “Okay.” He started scrolling through English baby names. “Jamie. Noah. Tyler.” None of these sounded like the name of someone in a hospital bed. “Benjamin. Cole. Michael.”

“Not Michael. That’s weird.”

“Why?”

Mikkel raised an eyebrow. Arthur stared at him until he realized. “ _Oh._ Yeah, that is weird, fair enough. Okay. Ethan. Jasper. Sam. . . . You’re supposed to say something if you like any of these, just so you know.”

“I know. I like listening to you.”

Arthur huffed. If Mikkel thought he was going to un-gloom Arthur and magically gift him with confidence through constant compliments—well, Arthur was pretty sure it wasn’t working, but regardless, all it did in the short-term was make him blush, and he hated it.

“Ian. Mark. Levi. Vincent.”

“I like Vincent,” Mikkel said suddenly.

“Alright, then.” Arthur wrote the name below their brainstorm from last class. “Vincent and the ambiguous narrator.” This was bizarre, sharing a character with someone else. It felt a little frightening. _Don’t be a control freak._ “We should probably give Vincent an arc, as well.”

“Does he need one?” Mikkel’s eyes were getting crinkly. “He’s not the main character.”

“Well. A little one, at least. Every character needs an arc, even if you don’t see it.” Mikkel let his chin rest on his forearms and Arthur bristled. “What, am I boring you?”

“No. I like listening to you talk.” Mikkel’s smile crept on on either side of his arm. “You should become a teacher, like your mother.”

This wasn’t the first time Arthur had heard this, but it was the first time it stirred anything like longing in him. Fantastic things sounded much more possible in Mikkel’s accent. _Stop it. Stop getting my hopes up. You’re so evil._ Mikkel always looked like he knew something Arthur didn’t, and it amused him. Was that real, or was that fake confidence? What could he possibly know? _Not that. I hope not that. Unless . . ._

See, that was him getting his hopes up again. It was insidious.

“Here.” Arthur handed Mikkel his pencil, the one he’d chewed up. “You can decide what Vincent looks like, since you named him. He’s your child. Congratulations.”

Now Mikkel’s eyes widened in something almost like panic. “No, you’re the one who writes stuff down.”

 _This again? Really?_ “Actually, we both write stuff down, because we’re both writing this story. I’m going to be writing stuff about the main character while you figure out Vincent.”

Mikkel looked at the pencil like it was an alien artifact. “I would rather you do it. I’ll tell you what to write. You wrote the rest, it should all be the same.”

“No, it shouldn’t, because if it all looks the same she’ll think I did all the work.”

“No, we can tell her we both talked about it. She will believe us.”

Arthur finally turned to face him completely. “Why is this a big deal to you?”

Mikkel looked back at him, and Arthur watched the emotions cross over his face: anger, then sadness, then resignation. He breathed in, then he breathed out a sigh. He held his pencil, but differently than when he was drawing; his hand was tense, the lines of his letters dark and jagged. The penmanship was so wonky it barely fit between the lines. Arthur shouldn’t have watched, but it was morbid curiosity that kept his eyes fixated on Mikkel’s tortured progress across the page.

He wrote:

_I am dislexic and English makes it harber._

He ended it with a shrug of surrender, dropping his pencil on the page. “That’s probably all wrong. You probably can’t even read it.”

Some of the letters were overlapping, but that didn’t matter. “I can read it.” And now he felt like an ass. Of course it wasn’t laziness, if Mikkel was so willing to _do Arthur’s math homework_ for him. _We can help each other._ Of course. He just stared at those letters—written on the back of the rubric, so he’d have to erase them eventually—and let the guilt and sympathy form its way into an apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

“It’s okay.” Mikkel still wasn’t looking at him. “I should have just told you.”

“That must make life so difficult . . .” Then a thought popped in. “How did you pass literacy tests, then? If you can’t spell?”

“You can take them verbally.”

Arthur stared at him, amazed. He was this miserable reading and writing in English, and he’d still wanted to come all the way over here for this? _And I’m what he ends up with. Good God._ “So . . . okay. Then we’ll figure something out. We’ll . . . how are you doing other classes? What do you do when you have to do written assignments?”

Mikkel shrugged. “I type everything. Spellcheck.”

 _I like math._ That made sense, too. You couldn’t confuse numbers. Well, maybe some people could, but Mikkel didn’t. “Okay. We can just type the story, then.” _No, we can’t._ “Shit, she wants a rough draft written out. We’ll—I’ll help you write out your bits.”

Mikkel leaned backward, rubbing his hands over his face and up into his hair. When he finally looked at Arthur again, he was weary, but amused, too. “You could have just said yes the first time.”

Arthur stared at him, but there wasn’t any exasperation in his face, just fondness. “Yeah, well.” Arthur poked at Mikkel’s near knee with his pencil. “I’m difficult like that. You’re the one who wanted to be friends with me.”

“I know.” Mikkel smiled.

Arthur couldn’t meet his gaze without something warm tingling in his chest, so he started his bullet points under _Vincent._ “You’re still doing the deciding here, I’m just transcribing. How old is he?”

They worked until the end of the period, but Mikkel’s eyes stayed crinkly.

* * *

The problem with co-authoring, Arthur quickly discovered, was not that Mikkel didn’t like his ideas. It was that Mikkel’s ideas were so much better. They were cinematic. Arthur knew how the dialogue should go and the tiny gestures that went along with it. Mikkel knew what the whole scene should look like, where the camera would be placed if it were on film. The sentences he fed Arthur were like brushstrokes in a painting. But it wasn’t that one had a big-picture mind and one a little-picture; they constantly checked each other, pulled each other back down to earth when they got too distracted by one thing. _You’re talking too much about the setting,_ Arthur would say, _you’re slowing things down too much._ Or Arthur would be about to put in a really clever, sarcastic line from the narrator and Mikkel would tap him on the wrist. _Let him just think about it. He doesn’t have to say anything._

The narrator was always _him_ now. They’d decided to make whether or not it was a love story ambiguous as well, though Mikkel had taken a bit of convincing. _If we leave so much open to interpretation, is it anything?_ Arthur found it hard to believe that someone so eloquent couldn’t be the same way on paper, but that wasn’t fair of him and he knew it. Not everyone’s brain worked—or, rather, didn’t work—like his. _It’s whatever the reader puts into it,_ Arthur had replied. _That’s the whole idea. That’s why people go around art galleries and stare. They’re not trying to figure out what the art means, they’re just trying to figure out what they can get out of it and put into it._

Mikkel didn’t just watch him when he ranted like this now, he replied and sometimes he actually disagreed. Arthur wondered if this was more confidence emerging, now that the dyslexia secret was out, or if it was Mikkel being more confident that Arthur wouldn’t be shattered by an argument. He quite liked their debates, actually. Especially when he got Mikkel worked up, because that was refreshing—and because he liked when Mikkel was loud. His voice had this whole other side to it when he raised it—not that he was actually yelling at Arthur, just speaking at a higher volume than normal—and it made him sound like . . . like something from a movie. It was raspy, _gravelly_ almost. Like a cool villain’s voice. And his accent got thicker the faster he talked, which was fun. Arthur liked winding him up until he got to the point where he couldn’t understand a word Mikkel said; then they would both pause a second and laugh. Arthur laughed at school, now. It was a lot easier to do it when he knew he couldn’t be heard over the booms from Mikkel.

Routine took over. Every lunch period was spent in the library, working on math or bio or English. Sometimes Mikkel took out his sketchpad—he was in art this semester, which meant Arthur would have it by himself in January—and Arthur got to see his work in progresses. He should have known just by the way Mikkel held a pencil that he could draw. He did sketches, mostly, but he did some with colored pencil as well, and those Arthur had no words for. Most of them were landscapes that only took up half or a quarter of the page, little barns in grassy fields or a creek in a forest. He didn’t do anything indoors, and he didn’t do animals or people. He didn’t talk about his artwork either, which Arthur respected; it wasn’t like he was forthcoming about his incubus. So when Mikkel drew Arthur just sat and worked on his diagrams of cells and watched from the corner of his eye as Mikkel sketched a likeness of Arthur’s water bottle.

“You don’t chew on your pencil, when you’re drawing.”

“I don’t think, when I draw.”

Arthur only realized he was smiling when Mikkel smiled back.

The only pressing issue in all this was gym class. The changing rooms were a bit of a hassle, but Arthur just changed in one of the bathroom stalls—thankfully, there were two in there—like he always did. If he happened to catch a glimpse of Mikkel’s bare back on his way through, well . . . well, it was a free country, he could look if his eyes landed there. Anyway. The problem was gym itself, because gym itself meant sports.

Arthur wasn’t the only one. A very vocal minority groaned in protest every morning when the teacher announced what blood sport they’d be playing today. _Do we have to?_ Arthur didn’t bother with that anymore. Hadn’t worked in middle school, wouldn’t work now. He tried a different approach: “Can’t I just write an essay on the benefits of an active lifestyle instead?”

“Nice try.”

“I could give a presentation on the history of volleyball.”

“Maybe for a different class.”

“How about I tidy the equipment room for you?”

The gym teacher started to roll her eyes, but paused. “Just this once. And only because the softball team left a mess in there.”

Arthur walked away from the class with head held high. The rest of the physically inept glared at him in jealousy, but he ignored them. _Victory is mine._

Then he was stuck in the stuffy equipment room for an hour, but at least he had no audience. He sorted all of the balls and found all the bean bags that had gotten lost underneath carts and shelves. He got overambitious with his attempt to move the 30-pound weights from one side of the room to the other and was doubled over, halfway through this endeavor, when he heard a playful knock on the ajar door. He smiled faintly.

“Thanks for the view, Kirkland,” said Gilbert.

Arthur bolted up like he’d been set on fire. The weight slammed to the ground an inch from his foot. “Bloody hell, that could have been a lawsuit.” _It might still be one._ He trusted the Gilbert he used to be friends with. This wasn’t the same Gilbert anymore. “What happened to playing outside today?”

“We are. She gave us free time for the rest of class. She wanted me to come tell you.” Gilbert walked over to him—Arthur edged backward—and picked up the weight, easy as you please, and deposited it with the other. Then he put a basketball under his arm and regarded Arthur in amusement. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, y’know. I’m not gonna bite you.”

“No,” Arthur said. “I don’t know that.”

Gilbert’s pale brow furrowed, then smoothed as recognition darkened his eyes. “It’s not like we hate you. We were just stupid kids, everybody was friends back then.”

Straight through the heart, and a twist of the blade for good measure. “So now we’re all grown up and you know better than to be friends with a loser.”

They both heard his voice go raw at the end. Gilbert winced.

“You’re not a loser. And I just said, we don’t hate you. You just avoid everybody. Fran’s been saying he wishes you’d hang out with us for months.”

 _Months._ As in, over the summer he was saying this? As in, over the previous _school year_?

“It’s not like anyone’s come and told me. I don’t see Francis showing his pretty face in the library.” He wanted to say more, but his voice was going to crack, he could feel it. Why was everyone else so well put-together? No one else ever frayed like this. Why was he the only one with seams so weak?

“He didn’t want to bother you. You don’t exactly give off friendly vibes.” Gilbert nodded to him, or perhaps to the interaction they were having. “But I’ll tell Fran that you wanna talk to him, if you want.”

This should have happened years ago. This shouldn’t have happened at all. Why had they stopped being friends? Because one day Francis decided he cared more about his manicure than pretending to be gryphons? Because Antonio started dressing nice and kissing girls? Because Gilbert stopped running around for fun and started _training_ because he wanted to be a big strong policeman like his father? Arthur didn’t owe them anything. _They_ owed _him_ an apology. But . . . he did _want_ to be friends with them again. Of course he did; he missed them. He hadn’t let himself put it into words, but it was true. And he had Mikkel now, but it was _only temporary_. So, really, at the end of the day, what did he have to lose?

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay,” he said, louder than a mumble. “Tell him.”

Gilbert nodded. “Okay.”

They stood in the silence for a few seconds.

“Thanks,” Arthur said.

Gilbert just nodded again and turned to go. But he glanced over his shoulder: “You coming?”

Arthur looked toward the door, then regarded the room. Everything was back where it was supposed to be now. If he stayed, he’d just be sitting by himself again. He could always get his bag out of the changing room and put a dent in the unending math homework . . .

“Or are you gonna lick the floor clean in there?”

Arthur glared. Gilbert snickered.

Outside, everyone was enjoying one of September’s last summery days. The showoffs who wore shorts were already chasing a black-and-white ball around. The girls who never changed into gym clothes were lounging on top of the picnic tables in an attempt to tan, all of them cupping their free hand to shield their phones from the sun. A couple people—Arthur’s sports-hating ilk—were doing laps of the bus lane and chatting about YouTubers and anime and that sort of thing. And there was Mikkel, standing in a rough circle with Antonio and a handful of other guys. When Gilbert called to them, they all turned, but only Mikkel smiled at the sight of Arthur.

“Come on, Mick,” Gilbert said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re with me and Toni.”

“Try and get a shot past this guy,” Antonio crowed to the opposite team.

“That’s no fair,” one of them protested. “Dude’s taller than the poles.”

“Exactly,” Gilbert and Antonio said in perfect unison, and they all went up in their patented brand of gleeful laughter and comradely cursing.

Mikkel’s smile faded though, a bit, when his eyes found Arthur again. A question pulled on his face.

Arthur nodded, trying to hide how heartened he was. _Go ahead. I’ll be fine._

While Mikkel and the rest of the pack dribbled and blocked and passed, Arthur wandered over to the rock pile. They’d lugged the rocks here during the renovation; several of them now lined the bus lane to prevent anybody from getting any wise ideas and driving onto the soccer field. They’d had extra, so now a rock pile sat between the dumpster cage and the basketball court. The younger kids drew on them with chalk sometimes, but the rain had cleared the last colorful doodles away. Arthur sat on a lower rock, hugged his arms around himself, and watched Mikkel. He’d never had a front row seat.

It was times like this when he did feel _other_ , like the GSA always preached about, but not in a bad way. He wasn’t like these boys or guys or men or whatever they were, in the same way Francis and Matthew and the Vargas brothers weren’t like them. He didn’t feel like a girl, watching them. He felt a bit like someone leaning on a fence at a zoo exhibit. Mostly, he just felt like an observer. An admirer.

Mikkel jumped up to swing the ball into a net, all of him arms and legs and fiery blond hair. As he jogged around to get into position again, he glanced over at Arthur and gave him a breathless grin. Arthur smiled faintly back and looked away.

They’d start badminton, once the snow fell. Then they could play doubles and stand side-by-side. Mikkel was tall enough to get most of the shots. Arthur would have plenty of time for staring.

Maybe gym wasn’t completely loathsome.

* * *

“Have you thought about the cover page?” Mikkel asked.

Arthur looked up from the sketchbook. They were in their new spot in the very back of the library, sitting on the floor near the books on space exploration and American history and other things nobody would ever sign out in this school. They alternated between sitting together, leaning into each other, hip against hip, and sprawling out on their backs or bellies. Mikkel was on his back, Arthur’s binder propped on his chest while he checked over his long division, and Arthur was on his stomach thumbing through Mikkel’s artwork again. They’d started an abstract unit and Arthur couldn’t believe the things he’d made. Fractals and curlicues and palmettes—it was looking at leaves edged with frost, through a kaleidoscope. Arthur couldn’t imagine filling a page with all that. Even if he could stay invested long enough in art that made no sense, his arm would probably reject his hand before he was halfway through.

“I think it should be really subtle,” Arthur replied. “To match the way we’re writing it. Maybe just an IV stand in the middle of the page or something. Do you think you could do that?”

“Hmmm.” Mikkel nodded thoughtfully. His hair whispered against the carpet. “Yeah, probably.”

Arthur looked over at him, alarmed by the lackluster response. “I’m just trying to save you from having to draw too much detail. I don’t expect you to do a full portrait of Vincent.”

Mikkel just hummed again.

Arthur sat up, weight on his elbow. “What did you want it to be, then?”

Mikkel tilted his head back to look at Arthur upside-down. It made his Adam’s apple stand out in his throat. Arthur had one, but it didn’t look like that. ( _Yet._ There was some wishful thinking.) “It ends with Vincent taking the main character’s hand, right?”

“Yeah.” The moment where Vincent is saying goodbye, because he’s being discharged from the hospital, but the MC is really saying goodbye to the whole world. Arthur was excited to write that bit, but he didn’t want to rush into it. He’d written endings before, but never any with something solid leading up to them. This was important.

“I was thinking maybe it should be holding hands, for the cover.”

“Oh.” There was an idea. But weren’t hands really difficult? All the little articulations. Online artists were always posting about the horror of hands; an irritation older than making the eyes look the same. “Well, if you want to, go ahead. But I won’t be any help to you.”

He’d been thinking maybe Mikkel could do the sketching and Arthur could outline it in pen, but he wasn’t touching something as complicated as hand-holding. He’d do the title and the other words, but not that.

“Sure you will.” Mikkel sat up himself, letting the binder fall shut and stretching his arms over his head. “You can be my model.”

Arthur wasn’t checking out his biceps. Heavens, no. “You can’t just Google reference hands?”

“I could. But yours is better.” Mikkel picked up Arthur’s hand. “See? It looks like a main character hand.”

Arthur was far too distracted from the fact that Mikkel had just told him he had a terminally ill person’s hands by the fact that— _he was holding his hand._ This wasn’t like the handshake on the bus, confirming friendship like a business deal. This was lighter. Mikkel was cradling his hand. Arthur didn’t recognize his own hand, resting there in Mikkel’s palm. Normally his hands looked blunt, stubby, too small to have any practical use. But there, _here_ , now, it looked like a delicate thing.

“And—” He had to stop there, because his voice came out high. _Get yourself together, you idiot._ “And you’ll be Vincent’s hand?”

Mikkel nodded. “If you think it’s okay.”

They were still holding hands.

“Okay,” Arthur said.

So they had a hand-holding photoshoot. You would think, after holding Mikkel’s hand in multiple different ways and angles, it would lose its novelty. It did not. Mikkel would take the picture with his phone, stare at their hands, tilt them a bit, shift his fingers, then take another picture, and repeat the process. Twice, his thumb stroked over the top of Arthur’s hand and he nearly had a heart attack. Were there pressure points on the backs of hands? Was Arthur about to pass out?

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but murder always felt like double the time. When Mikkel finally released him with a smile, Arthur scooted back to sit against the space books so he could keep his hands in his lap and focus on breathing like a normal human being. Mikkel didn’t notice, thankfully; he was swiping through the pictures to pick out the best.

“I think this one,” he finally said, turning his phone to face Arthur. “What do you think?”

It was one of the last ones they took, so they were both relaxed. Arthur could see the blue of the veins in his wrist, the little crescent moon in his thumbnail, the weakness in his hand compared to Mikkel’s, which was holding onto his, their fingers half-twined like they were falling apart, like no matter how much Mikkel wanted to hold on, Arthur was letting him go.

“I like that one,” Arthur said, low. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Mikkel smiled.

This was getting bad.

* * *

When it came to the actual writing process, Arthur was pleasantly surprised how smoothly it went. It wasn’t awkward, stumbling flatly over the words like it was when they had to read something aloud to the class. If Mikkel was self-conscious or embarrassed by it, he didn’t show it at all. He said the sentences out loud and Arthur typed them; he was the fingers, Mikkel was the mind. They were a machine. One thousand words became two thousand became three. Arthur wrote his first section, the opening, privately, but once Mikkel pointed out _we should try to make the style match_ Arthur realized he was being silly and began writing his parts with Mikkel too. They filled their last work period in English class this way, and every evening they went to Mikkel’s room and worked on it there as well. Arthur couldn’t believe how easy it was to let the words out, even with Mikkel listening in. Maybe it was because Mikkel didn’t watch; he lay on the floor of half-hanging off the bed, a pencil in his mouth as he dictated or listened. Arthur’s voice didn’t shake. He didn’t cut out emotional lines just for the sake of his ego. Everything they wrote was true.

Typing the last lines out actually had a couple tears pricking the backs of his eyes. From relief to have finally finished something? From his investment in the characters? Or just because it was so nice to create with someone else? He had no idea, but he blinked them away. Crying was never an option.

Although, there were times when he thought the process of writing the rough draft out might bring forth tears of frustration. It was . . . well, it sounded dramatic, but it was heart-breaking watching Mikkel try to write out a paragraph. More than once, he had to put down his pencil, shaking his head and pushing the paper away. _I have to stop looking at it for a while._ Arthur wondered what the words looked like to those pale blue eyes. He’d Googled the symptoms and effects of dyslexia, but they weren’t the same for everyone. Did letters dance, swirl over the page? Did they swap places inside words? Did they come unstuck from his mind, so he couldn’t even recognize them? Arthur wanted to ask, but it seemed too nosy, too personal. It was bizarre to Arthur, though, because Mikkel had such an excellent memory otherwise. He knew _two_ languages, which was apparently something generally difficult for people with dyslexia to achieve. And he was excellent at math and science, aside from the linguistic elements. Arthur wondered if that added to the torture for him. If it wasn’t _hey, at least you’re good at these other things_ but _hey, you’re good at these other things, so you must not even be trying with this._

Arthur lasted one session of sitting by and watching Mikkel struggle. Then, the next night—after doing more research on his phone at two in the morning—Arthur came armed when he stepped over the threshold into Mikkel’s room.

He looked up from his phone, smiling. “You have presents?”

“I come bearing gifts,” Arthur agreed, waiting for Mikkel to sit up on the bed before perching on the edge beside him. He set his binder on Mikkel’s lap, open to the page they’d left off on in the rough draft, then held up two pieces of blue construction paper. “Blue is your favorite color, right?”

“Yes.” Mikkel’s eyes twinkled. It shouldn’t have been possible for someone under the age of sixty to have jovial, twinkling eyes, but Mikkel accomplished it without any effort in evidence. “What is it for?”

Arthur demonstrated. He put the pieces of paper down on top of the looseleaf, one covering up what had already been written, the other covering up everything except the line in progress. “Now you can see what you’re doing and not worry about straight lines.”

Mikkel looked down at the papers on his lap, lips pressed together. He wasn’t _quite_ smiling, but he didn’t look angry or sad either. Arthur stared at him until he couldn’t take it anymore: “Is this demeaning? Or condescending? Or . . . I don’t know if you know those words. Oh, God, was that condescending too? Tell me to shut up.”

“Shut up,” Mikkel said, laughing. His eyes were so crinkled Arthur wondered if he could still see. “This is good. Thank you. It’s very nice for you to do this.”

Arthur shifted a little on the mattress, avoiding his gaze. “You should write it in all caps, too. Capitals. So you know which way all the letters go.”

Mikkel’s mouth twisted a little, but Arthur recognized self-deprecation on him now. “Okay. It’ll be ugly.”

“It’s a rough draft. It’s supposed to be ugly.”

Mikkel didn’t say anything, just laughed again, watching Arthur. Radiating fondness.

Arthur still couldn’t look at him properly, so he lifted up some looseleaf to get to the hidden pocket in the back of his binder. “Also.” He took out his extra cookie, still wrapped up in plastic. “Positive reinforcement.”

Mikkel grinned and reached for it, but Arthur held his hand back. “Ah-ah-ah. There are four paragraphs left in this scene. You can have one quarter of the cookie after each paragraph you get through.”

Mikkel groaned, pitiful. Eyes gleaming.

“I am a cruel tutor,” Arthur told him, and crawled back so he could lean against the wall and observe his pupil. Sitting so close still felt dangerous when it was on a bed.

“You are,” Mikkel agreed, but he got to work.

When he took the last bite of cookie, he didn’t take it with his hand. He leant over and lipped it off Arthur’s palm, like a horse. Arthur mumbled _g’night_ and ran back to his room before they could get into any other conversation. He couldn’t believe a copy of Mikkel’s mouth wasn’t branded on his palm.

* * *

And then, before either of them knew it, Judgement Day had arrived. Last period English class. Mrs. Kirkland was evil, as was known by all, and waited until the last five minutes to pass out the marked short stories. _And_ she started on the opposite side of the room, so Arthur got his copy of the rubric last. Mikkel was in the middle, and he just stared down at it, one side of his mouth quirked upward while his brow furrowed. Could he read her handwriting? Probably not; for someone with a degree in it, she butchered the English language when she wrote it down. ( _I must have been a doctor in a past life._ ) At long last, Mrs. Kirkland stepped in front of Arthur’s desk and laid the package face-up on his desk, so all he could see was the cover page. Mikkel had done a really good job on it; a black-and-white sketch of their hands, with charcoal added to make the shadows deeper. Arthur had done the title last and one letter was slightly wonky, which would bother him until the day he died.

His mother winked at him. He looked up at her sharply, then flipped to the last page. 4/4 on cover page, grammar, revision, plot composition, and execution of theme. At the bottom: _20/20 = 100%_ and a little note. _I greatly enjoyed reading this, and you both show a lot of potential - but try something with a happy ending next time._

The bell interrupted Mrs. Kirkland’s general praise for the class, but Arthur wasn’t listening to it anyway. For once, instead of racing out the door, he wove his way through students flipping their chairs up onto their desks until he met Mikkel in the center of the room. “I told you she’d give you four out of—”

And then he was _up in the air._

Mikkel lifted him up, bookbag and all, for five entire seconds before he set him back on his feet again. He grinned with a hundred teeth. “Thank you!”

Arthur wasn’t sure if he was going to fall over or not. He was going to be blinded by that grin, at the very least. “Well—you’re welcome, but . . .”

Mikkel had an arm behind his back now, herding him out into the hall and carving a path for them both. He leaned down toward Arthur’s ear and, beneath the hustle and bustle of the homeward bound teenagers, told him, “That was the first time I got a hundred on an English thing.”

Arthur didn’t know if he meant English as in the language or English as in reading and writing, but it didn’t matter. He smiled up at him and, once they were in their seat on the bus, took out his extra cookie and handed the whole thing to Mikkel.

Whose eyebrows rose in surprise. “You didn’t break it.”

“You eat it. It’s your celebration cookie.”

Mikkel looked at the cookie, then at Arthur. Then he held it toward Arthur’s lips. “Here. You get first bite for being a good tutor.”

Arthur remembered the feeling of Mikkel’s lips against his palm. He couldn’t try that; he’d end up slobbering all over Mikkel’s hand. So he just took a tiny bite from the edge of the cookie, his hand cupped underneath in case it crumbled. “Thanks.”

Mikkel wasn’t looking at his eyes. He reached out and, with his thumb, brushed crumbs from the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He had so much concentration on his face, it was like time was frozen. Then he pulled his hand back and smiled and put the remainder of the cookie into his mouth.

There was no possible way to hide the heat in his cheeks. Things went so smoothly, felt so normal, and then . . . _Mikkel’s hands on his waist. His thumb on his chin. His fingers on his palm._ Thinking about them all at once made Arthur feel like he was being struck by lightning. He pushed his bookbag harder down onto his lap and tried to listen to what Mikkel was joking about. He wasn’t going to make it through this school year alive . . .

But at least he’d die happy.


	3. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That particular party was actually in a field, so I assume the mosquitoes had a good time :p

His mother had told him his whole life that his biggest problem was his impatience, but only now did Mikkel actually agree with her. When he was younger, his teachers always wrote on his report cards that he was restless, never paid enough attention. He _wanted_ to focus, but he also wanted to do this and that and finish everything at once and doodle in the margins of his notebook with his free hand at the same time. That was why the English teacher liked him so much. ( _Mikkel continues to exceed verbally. He devours new words and picks up on grammar well. My only concern is his spelling . . ._ ) These days, it was easier for him. He didn’t squirm in his seat anymore, just bounced his knee when things got really dry. He didn’t multitask beyond his abilities. He knew how to pace himself to get things done, more or less.

Except when it came to Arthur Kirkland.

In the beginning, he was too cocky. He thought he could just stare at him like he did with the girls in Denmark—the ones who scoffed at him but then still let him kiss them at the dances. But Arthur wouldn’t look back at him. He wouldn’t talk to him, either. Mikkel didn’t know English perfectly; he felt sort of neutered by it, sometimes, because he couldn’t say things like he wanted to. If Berwald and Tino heard the way he had to talk in English, they would laugh out loud. He was used to being brash, but he couldn’t do that with Arthur. Partly because he was a guest here; he didn’t want to get in trouble, and he didn’t want his host family actively hating him. But it was also partly because Arthur was so damned timid.

It was ridiculous. Arthur cowered, avoided, mumbled—but then, if you said something particular, he’d puff up and bite your head off. It was like trying to tame a bipolar Chihuahua.

He’d made good progress, though. Mikkel had finally convinced him the world wasn’t out to get him. He still caught himself in surprise when he realized Arthur was actually enjoying his company. He hadn’t been lying when he said Arthur made him nervous. Mikkel wasn’t used to being the one kept on his toes. But it was still easy—very easy, in fact—to catch Arthur off guard.

The look on his face everytime Mikkel touched him was adorable. And his eyes bulging out of his head when Mikkel picked him up that day in English? Oh. _Priceless._

At recess this morning Mikkel had come up behind Arthur and poked his waist through his sweater. (He had the ugliest sweaters. Mikkel loved them.) Arthur had jumped and knocked his shoulder into the door of his locker. Now, as they queued in the cafeteria, Mikkel thought Arthur was still blushing from his offer to kiss it better.

Arthur generally brought his lunches, but everybody bought on pizza day. Mikkel didn’t bother mentioning that his school had pizza everyday, if you wanted it, and it was way better than the cardboard crust and rubber cheese they served here. If he was a fussy eater, he wouldn’t have crossed the ocean. As they settled at their usual table, something new happened.

Two grade tens, both blond, chubby, and wearing glasses, stopped at the end of their table. The chubbier of the two—his shirt actually had tiny donuts dotted all over it, which Mikkel liked almost as much as Arthur’s sweater—smiled shyly at Mikkel before turning to Arthur. “Aren’t you coming to the meeting?”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I forgot.”

“That’s okay,” said the smaller one. He had a nervous finger twirling his curls, and his eyes kept flicking to Mikkel. He offered a smile, and the boy ducked down into his hoodie—but he smiled at the floor.

“I’ll, ah—” Arthur nodded to them. “I’ll meet you there. You can start without me if you want.”

“We’ll wait for ya.” Away they went, lugging their plates of pizza and bottles of chocolate milk. The curly-haired one snuck a little wave to Mikkel over his shoulder, and the other boy laughed.

Mikkel waved back, then turned his smile on Arthur. “They’re cute. What meeting is this?”

Arthur always got one of two looks when Mikkel called something _cute._ Either this one—if the thing was male—where his eyes went wide and then he tried to pretend they hadn’t just gone wide. Or the other one—if the thing was female—where he looked anywhere but Mikkel and the world was just supposed to pretend that his disappointment wasn’t painfully obvious. Mikkel often wondered if Arthur genuinely thought he was subtle. For someone so smart, he was kind of an idiot.

“Just, erm.” Arthur did something very important with the zipper of his backpack. “GSA. Meeting.”

Mikkel had heard those letters floating around in the halls, but never the actual words. “What is it?”

Arthur’s ears were starting to turn pink. “Gay-Straight Alliance. Or Gender-Sexuality Alliance. We say both.” He shrugged. “It’s just a thing I go to sometimes. It meets every three weeks. It used to be every week, but we didn’t really have anything to do, so . . .” He looked over at Mikkel, finally. “It’s really boring. And it’s only, like, four people. You should go play whateverball outside. While it’s still warm enough.”

Mikkel glanced over to Gilbert’s table. He was tempted to follow them outside on occasion, but hanging out with Arthur was always more fulfilling, even if he did end up doing push-ups in his bedroom just to get some of the energy out of his limbs. The gym in this school was even more pathetic than the cafeteria. Gilbert had told him _You should come over and lift with me sometime_ and Mikkel had been _this close_ to agreeing. But something about Gilbert made Arthur anxious. He was constantly doing the eye contact/quick avoid thing with him in gym. Mikkel hadn’t asked yet, since he doubted Arthur would tell him the truth. Maybe he had a crush on him.

Another good reason to stay away from Gilbert.

“I don’t want to go outside,” Mikkel told him. “I want to go to your GSA meeting.”

“. . . Are you sure? You probably won’t like it. We’ll be the oldest people there. Other than the teacher. Oh, yeah, there’s a teacher—” 

“Arthur.” Mikkel leaned closer to him, amused. “I want to go.”

At last, Arthur shut his mouth and they got moving. Mikkel let him lead the way up the stairs; he’d had recurring visions of Arthur tripping or someone shoving him and Mikkel being the convenient, dashing savior who caught him. It probably wouldn’t happen, but Mikkel liked following Arthur anyway, as creepy as that sounded. He liked adjusting his stride for him. He liked when Arthur glanced back, to make sure he was still there; he liked _being_ still there. It felt like something a protector would do.

 _Protector_ was probably creepy, too. He made a note to never say that out loud.

The GSA met in the history room, which was kind of funny. Posters of old white guys next to posters with rainbows and gender symbols Mikkel had never seen before. It was a different sort of attitude in his school. They had a sort of GSA, but it was more just a club for social issues in general. Tino was part of it, Berwald and Mikkel weren’t. Being gay or trans wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but it wasn’t something they advertised either. Nobody made a fuss when Berwald and Tino held hands in the halls. But here it wasn’t like that. Maybe it was just because the school was so small, but Mikkel hadn’t seen any openly gay relationships yet, nor anybody particularly androgynous. He’d always thought Canada was supposed to be really progressive, but maybe small towns were only nice on the outside.

It was not four people, as Arthur had said, but six—eight, counting Mikkel and the teacher who was eating a salad at her desk and basically leaving them to their own devices. They all sat down on top of desks, eating their pizza on their laps. Mikkel was the only one whose feet were on the floor.

After the first couple mouthfuls, Arthur got up to shut the door and they went round the room introducing themselves. Alfred and Matthew were the ones who’d stopped in the cafeteria. Leon was a freshman who didn’t take his earbuds out; Emily, beside him, was more intent on her DS than anyone else in the room. And, last but not least, was Ludwig, another grade nine and Gilbert’s younger brother. Mikkel was surprised to see him here. He was like Arthur; he hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet. Not that he was short, but Mikkel could tell he had at least six inches to go before he was done. He hunched, awkward, mumbling over his pizza when he said his name. Mikkel tried to smile at him, but Ludwig just nodded stiffly and looked away.

And Mikkel thought his self-confidence needed work. He felt better about it now.

“So,” said Alfred. He’d inhaled his pizza; Matthew was still nibbling his slice beside him. “Do we wanna do some identity posters?”

“All we ever _do_ is posters,” Emily said, eyes still on her phone.

“Yeah, but we have a new person today. And stuff could’ve changed, you don’t know.”

“In a month?”

“It could happen. _We don’t judge._ ” Alfred sat up straighter. “Everybody who hates the idea of doing identity posters again, raise your hand.”

No hands went up. Mikkel glanced over at Emily, who shrugged. “Whatever. Li can do mine.”

Alfred gave Matthew a look—which made the other boy bite his lips to keep from giggling—then Mikkel. “You can put whatever you feel comfortable with on it. It’s just, like, a, like, ice-breaking thing.”

A bin of mismatched markers and crayons was sourced from somewhere and placed on a central desk. Alfred passed around pieces of white paper—scrap paper, extra things the teacher had photocopied. Mikkel flipped it over and uncapped his marker—blue—but he didn’t write anything.

Arthur knew. He was watching him. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “Just say you’re uncomfortable sharing. That’s what I do.”

Mikkel wasn’t surprised by that. He wasn’t sure if Arthur was comfortable with anything when it came to socializing. “I don’t mind telling them about me,” he told him. “But maybe you could write on it and I could fill it out.”

Arthur hesitated, then uncapped the green marker in his hand. “Alright. We do them like spectrums, usually.” He wrote _masculine_ and _feminine_ at either end of the page. “So you’d sort of, put a little circle or something where you feel you are.” He started. “That says—”

“I know. I can read it,” Mikkel assured him. He quite liked Arthur’s penmanship, when he wasn’t writing in cursive. It was neat, and the letters were all similar sizes, and none of them connected or overlapped like when Mikkel tried to write. He put a circle underneath _masculine._ “Like that?”

Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it, nodding. He wrote _asexual_ and _allosexual_ this time. Mikkel’s brow furrowed and Arthur said, “It’s whether you experience sexual attraction or not.”

“Heyo,” said Emily, rather loudly. Still locked on the screen. “Ace is where it’s at.”

Mikkel arched an eyebrow. Arthur looked over at her, then tidied up his grimace. “Yeah. Anyway.”

Mikkel chuckled as he put his circle underneath _allosexual._ He wondered if Arthur had been that enthusiastic about labels, back when he was only fourteen. He had a feeling Arthur was cringing more for himself than for Emily, but he didn’t ask. That would only make it worse—or they’d end up with a vicious freshman sicced on them.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Arthur was actually straight. Entirely _possible._

Next Arthur wrote _cisgender_ and _transgender._ “You really don’t have to do the last two. They’re personal.”

“I know. That’s why I want to do them.” He didn’t know what cisgender meant, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist. He put his circle under it and looked at Arthur expectantly.

It would’ve gone faster if Mikkel did it. Arthur wrote _heterosexual_ on the end closest to him, then took a breath and reached across the page to write _homosexual._ Mikkel observed him, the effort he was putting in to look anywhere but Mikkel’s direction, then asked calmly, “What if I like both?”

Arthur looked at him so suddenly he must’ve gotten whiplash. “You—it—bisexual is in the middle. So just put your circle in the middle. If that’s. What you want.”

Mikkel smiled and put his circle right in the middle, then drew a smiley face in it for good measure. “That’s it?”

Now Arthur looked like he might faint. “Yep. That’s it.”

The others were just talking amongst themselves—Mikkel now understood why they only met once a month, if this was their general level of productivity—so Mikkel angled himself toward Arthur. “And you have never done this?”

He shook his head. “Well, I’ve done gender ones. But not . . . anything else.”

“How long have you been in the GSA?”

“Since grade nine.”

“So you were like them.” Mikkel nodded to the others.

“No.” Arthur glanced over at them, then said in an undertone, “I was worse.”

Mikkel laughed and Arthur added, “It’s fine. It’s, you know. They’re just figuring out who they are. It’s good that they can do it this way. In a safe space, and all that.”

Mikkel nodded. “It is good.” He regarded Arthur curiously. “Do you feel safe? In the safe space?”

Arthur sat back a bit. “Sure. There isn’t really bullying in this school. It’s not big enough. Everyone grew up together.” He shrugged. “There are the idiots who’ll throw slurs around, but it’s not active homophobia. I don’t think they have the ambition for active anything.”

Mikkel knew who he was talking about, the ones who came to class late or not at all and always smelled like cigarettes and wore nothing but boots and hunting jackets even when it was warm out. A very particular breed that Mikkel preferred to stay away from. “Are they why you don’t want to make a poster?”

He was getting close to being too pushy, he knew, but this was important. This felt very close to the core of that _something wrong_ that hovered over Arthur like a raincloud, that thing that kept him from raising his hand in class and ducking away from potential companionship.

“No.” Arthur kept his gaze on his lap. The marker was so old, the name had smudged off.

“Then why?”

And then, of course.

“Okay, guys-folks-peoples,” Alfred said, raising his voice to address them all. “Wanna present these bad boys?”

“Don’t _gender_ my poster,” Leon said. “God.”

Ludwig and Arthur’s were both blank. They all clapped for each other at the end to, as Alfred said, applaud their _honesty_ and _bravery_ and _stuff._ On the way out, Mikkel gave Ludwig a comradely clap on the back. He looked up in surprise, then finally gave Mikkel a quick little smile and hurried off to last period. Arthur was too distracted to notice.

He didn’t say anything on the bus or at supper. His bedroom door closed, and stayed closed.

 _Too much. Too pushy._ Mikkel stared up at the ceiling. _One step forward, two steps back._

He sighed.

Patience was impossible.

* * *

Mikkel woke to the bedroom lit blue by his phone. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and pawed the phone from the windowsill, which was far enough away that he had to sit up to get it, which ensured he would actually get up in the morning so he could turn off his alarm.

( _Common in children with attention disorders. We can prescribe a medication to help, if you like._ Mikkel’s parents weren’t exactly angels, but at least they’d cared enough not to get him hooked on speed at the ripe old age of seven.)

It was a text that turned on the screen. His thoughts immediately went across the Atlantic. Some family emergency? Tino and Berwald broke up? It was one in the morning here; that meant five a.m. over there. Would they think to text him this early in the morning if something happened? Then his eyes actually focused, and he saw who it was from. _Arthur._

He swiped.

**Are you awake?**

**Yes**

The little typing bubble appeared, then vanished, then appeared again.

**I’m sorry I was weird today**

Mikkel had to blink a couple times to get his eyes to take in those words. When he was awake, he was too awake to pay attention; when he was tired, he was too tired. No middle ground with his brain, apparently. Thank God for autocorrect.

**Today ?**

**Shut up**

**I can’t you texted me**

**Yeah**

**I just wanted to apologize**

**You weren’t being nosy**

**I was just being weird**

**No big deal**

Now the pause between typing bubbles was so long, Mikkel wondered if Arthur had fallen asleep with his phone flopped onto his chest. There was an image. He’d never thought about Arthur sleeping before. (Probably for the better; this was more creepy territory.) But did he spread out like Mikkel? Or curl up in a ball? Or wake up with all the sheets on the floor? He still hadn’t seen the inside of Arthur’s room . . .

**There’s no reason I can’t tell you.**

**I know you’re not an asshole**

Well, that was reassuring. And telling, almost completely. It was a formality, now, but he didn’t want to drag Arthur to it. He _did_ want to, but he wouldn’t. Patience.

**I’m glad I’m not an asshole**

**You can tell me anything**

Typing. Nothing. Typing. Nothing. Then:

**I’m gay**

Mikkel stared at the letters until they burned his eyes. He wasn’t dreaming. This was real.

**We can’t be friends anymore**

**I’m only friends with straight people**

**I take it back**

**You are an asshole**

Mikkel stifled laughter. He wondered if Arthur could hear him, on the other side of the wall.

**You could have told me tomorrow**

**I couldn’t sleep**

**I was thinking about it**

**Which is more weird**

**Not weird**

**Were you afraid to tell me ?**

**Yeah i guess**

**Even though i knew it would**

**be fine. It just changes how you**

**see someone I guess.**

**It won’t change how I see you**

**Promise**

**I don’t want things to be different**

**Or weird or whatever**

**They won’t be**

**I’m weird not you**

**You are not weird.**

**You are the flawless actor who**

**would play a weird kid in a movie**

**and nobody would believe it**

Flawless. Mikkel squeezed a couple knuckles between his teeth to keep himself silent.

**Thanks**

**You would be the smart kid**

**who saves the world**

**Gay kids can’t save the world**

**Christians would get upset**

**Maybe you’re the bad guy**

**You set the world on fire**

**I could do that**

**The world has some things**

**I like in it though**

**Like unicorns**

**Like you**

The texts sent at exactly the same time, but Arthur’s was last, hanging there in the void. Mikkel read that pair of words over and over again until he could close his eyes and see them there in the dark. He’d never been like this over his old girlfriends. Maybe that was a sign in itself.

**Yeah mostly unicorns**

**Those are better**

**Did you fall asleep?**

**Am I keeping you awake?**

**I’m awake**

**If you’re the bad guy**

**I’ll be your assistant**

**You can stand next to my throne**

**When i rule the world**

**Or I could sit on the throne**

**And you could sit on my lap**

He wasn’t surprised at the silence after that one. He was starting to get a little too far into the realm of exhaustion-born lack of inhibitions. Time to draw this to a close, as much as he hated to.

**Sorry was that too much**

**No no just**

**Maybe too much yeah**

**I don’t know what to say**

**How about good night**

**That works. Good night**

**Good night :)**

Mikkel locked his phone, plunging the room into darkness. He felt numb and tingly at the same time, like a low current was running through him. He was going to wake up in the morning and wonder if this really happened, then see those texts and have this feeling all over again—but stronger, because he’d be recharged. This was happening.

There were the negative _maybe maybe maybe_ thoughts in the back of his head, but he flicked them away. He was getting there. He just needed to get to the point where Arthur wouldn’t run away screaming if he asked him . . .

Just when he’d gotten comfortable, his room turned blue again. He sat up, swiped his phone, and squinted into the light.

**:)**

* * *

Mikkel smiled at Arthur when they met in the hall, Mikkel going into the bathroom and Arthur coming out. He’d never been this close to him in the morning, skin still colored from the warmth of the shower. His shampoo smelled like coconut.

Arthur almost dropped the maple syrup onto his waffles when Mikkel passed the bottle to him and their fingers brushed. Normally, Arthur plucked things delicately, his hand looking like an alien claw half the time, to prevent any sort of fingertip contact. He didn’t do that this morning. His fingers were soft.

On the bus, Mikkel stepped ahead of the seat so Arthur could sit on the inside, closer to the heater and supported by the wall. As soon as Mikkel sat down, Arthur visibly relaxed. No one could see him, in there. No one could touch him—except Mikkel. Their sleeves whispered together.

Mikkel got the books from the top shelf of Arthur’s locker and handed them to him. Green eyes flashed up to him, grateful, then away. Mikkel walked him to history, even though it made him late for art. Arthur shook his head when the bell rang just as he stepped backward over the threshold. Mikkel just smiled and waved before the teacher came over and closed the door.

The art teacher didn’t care. He was already in paroxysms over the meaning of a blank canvas.

This art class turned out to be different than the rest. He never sat with anyone else on purpose—if people were already at his usual table, he didn’t avoid them like Arthur would—but today someone pulled out a chair right across from him. He finished the line he’d tried a hundred times to get the angle of _just right_ and looked up. 

Francis was sitting at his table. He knew it was him. (He knew almost everyone’s name now. There weren’t enough people for anonymity.) He knew Francis better than most, however, because of his beautiful paintings, his beautiful self-presentation, and the fact that Arthur had mentioned being friends with him. Once. Very briefly. And then refused to answer any and all questions Mikkel had about it. Mikkel knew this one wasn’t a crush, even though Francis had much more of a _certain vibe_ than Gilbert did. Francis was pretty like a fashion designer or an art curator. He looked like a painting himself, a lot of the time. Like something you couldn’t touch.

Arthur looked like something Mikkel _had_ to touch.

“You’re Arthur’s friend,” Francis said, by way of greeting. “Right?”

“Right,” Mikkel agreed.

“And you know we used to be friends?”

“Right.” He would have said that even if he didn’t.

“Okay.” Francis clasped his fingers together on the table, leaning over them like this was a board meeting. “I would like you to deliver a message to him for me.”

Mikkel raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”

Francis pressed his lips together and tilted his head to one side. Mikkel looked past him to the table where Francis normally sat, and its herd of boys and girls who were chattering quietly amongst themselves, all pretending not to eavesdrop, all waiting for that moment to pounce and resume vying for Francis’s attention. Francis was always surrounded by one herd or another. Mikkel had never seen him alone. Popularity was a luxury, but it was probably a curse as well. Mikkel liked people, but if he had that many around him all the time he’d go crazy.

“Okay,” Mikkel said. “But Arthur isn’t going to be around all of them.”

“I know.” Francis looked a little scornful. Only a light expression. Never enough to make him wrinkle. “Friends have degrees. Like burns, you know?”

Mikkel stared at him.

Francis lifted his pianist hands. They were like dove wings. “There are first degree friends. Surface level. Shallow. Yes?”

Mikkel nodded. He didn’t like that Francis was wearing his accent like an accessory, but he understood what he was saying.

“Then second. Good for talking to. Always around. Harder to heal, if they hurt you. But you can survive.” He brought his hands lower, hovering over his heart now. “And then third. They go right through to bone. You need them always.”

“You make disfigurement sound very nice,” Mikkel told him. Arthur had taught him that word. (Long story.)

Francis smiled. “I know which of these Arthur is. I shouldn’t have let him get so far away, but I was growing up. Now I have myself figured out.”

 _But he doesn’t._ Mikkel didn’t want this charming creature pressuring Arthur into anything he wasn’t ready for. It wasn’t his job to stand between Arthur and all harm, but still . . . he didn’t know if he trusted Francis and his vibe.

“So. My message.” Francis stood up. His scarf fell across his chest; he tossed it over his shoulder. “Toni and I are having a Halloween party, at his house. Arthur is invited. You can come, too, if you like. You don’t _have_ to wear a costume, but you _should_.” He winked, smiling. “You will remember this?”

Mikkel stifled a snort at the phrasing. He felt more and more comfortable with English as the weeks went on; he wondered if anyone actually believed Francis, or if they just went along with it because he was so perfect. “I will remember this.”

“Merci!” And he swept away, back to his table. He was welcomed in seamlessly, resuming conversation as if he’d missed nothing, the captain of his ship, the leader of his cult. He picked up his paintbrush and announced _it is time for red, mes amis_ and everyone reached out their hands in unison so Francis could paint little hearts over them, a fluid motion for each.

Mikkel looked from that back down to his sketchbook. None of his stuff had the polish of Francis; none of _him_ had the polish of Francis. But he didn’t think that was a bad thing. He thought it was intimidating. Arthur had called him _flawless_ last night, after all. If Mikkel was flawless, Francis was otherworldly.

He wondered if Arthur would say no, if Francis tried to seduce him.

Then he shook his head to himself and flipped to a new page in his book. Arthur wouldn’t say anything at all if Francis put moves on him. If the past month had taught Mikkel anything, it was that he was way too oblivious to notice something like that.

* * *

The message sat in Mikkel’s head longer than it should have. He saw Arthur in English, but they weren’t doing any group work, just listening to Mrs. Kirkland talk about the importance of reading Shakespeare in the language it had been written. (Mikkel had been quite relieved to hear from Arthur that it was borderline nonsensical to him, too.) He kept looking across the room at Arthur—now that he had something to stare at that wasn’t the board, he took every chance he got. Only a couple times had Arthur ever glanced back at him. Most of the time he was hunched over, writing furiously in his binder. Always pen, never pencil. (He wouldn’t let Mikkel chew on those. He said he’d have nightmares of ink pouring out of Mikkel’s mouth.) Mikkel often recorded lectures at home, but he didn’t have to now in this place. Every teacher offered to give out paper copies of their PowerPoints. There was a bit of a taboo about being one of those who raised their hand to be part of the literal handouts, but Mikkel didn’t care. He wouldn’t see the vast majority of these people ever again.

Anyway, he didn’t do it in every class. Just the ones he had without Arthur. They studied together for everything, even the classes they didn’t share. Mikkel could remember things infinitely better when they were said in that soft, raspy voice Arthur fell into when he’d been reading aloud for a while.

Lunchtime was when they finally got to sit together, but Mikkel still didn’t bring it up. Arthur was complaining—like a lot of people—about how everyone was talking about the legalization of weed. “The reason they’re doing it is the stupid part,” he said. “If the government thinks people are going to stop buying marijuana on the street and buy it from them for more money instead, they’re stupider than everyone already thought they were.”

“Why stop there?” Mikkel asked, crunching a baby carrot. “Why not legalize heroin and meth too?”

“They might as well,” Arthur said gloomily, then perked up. “Wait, are you serious? Is heroin legal in Denmark?”

 _“No.”_ Mikkel laughed at the thought. His mother was forever ranting about the _infection_ in Copenhagen, as if they could just wall off a couple problem areas and world peace would come about the next day. Corruption quarantined, go about your lives. “All of it is illegal except if you are very sick. But maybe it’s your fault if you do heroin. Maybe you should deal with it yourself, not the police.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Even if you’re a kid and someone pushes it on you at a party?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty common sense, I think.”

“Hmm.” Arthur nudged Mikkel’s ankle with his shoe. “Are you in a bad mood?”

“No.” But now that Arthur said that, he realized he was. Not _bad_ , just sort of . . . anxious. He knew he had to tell Arthur what Francis had said, but part of him didn’t want to. What if it upset him? Then Mikkel would be the bearer of bad news, and he hated being that guy. And Arthur was actually pretty cheerful today; he’d been humming to himself when Mikkel found him waiting for him near the water fountain.

_Maybe you’re just afraid to share him. Maybe you’re the bad guy._

It was probably true. Mikkel didn’t like thinking too hard about stuff like that. Introspection made people gloomy, as evidenced by Arthur.

“Francis talked to me in art.”

It kind of killed him, the amount of hope lighting Arthur’s eyes in that second. Then he played it off, of course, taking a sip from his juice box even though it was mostly empty so it was just the ungodly racket of bubbles moving into the straw. They both cringed at the sound and Arthur placed the box down, carefully, next to the unwrapped dessert (and bus) cookies.

“What, uh, did he say?”

“That you are invited to a Halloween party at Toni’s house. Me, too. Both of us.” That felt like he was stealing attention away from Arthur, but he also didn’t want him to think he was expected to go by himself. If he even went to the party. Mikkel didn’t remember ever having to be this careful with his girlfriends, but most of them had their own lives already, while Mikkel was just a piece briefly situated on their chessboard before they tired of him. He wasn’t used to being the one with the experience, the one with the bigger group of friends. It was sort of a relief, to know if he asked Arthur to do something he’d get a truthful _I don’t want to_ and not just _sorry I’m doing this with these other people maybe next time._ But it was pressure, too. Mikkel didn’t want things to be possessive or controlling. He didn’t want to be Arthur’s entire life. Just, maybe, the brightest part of it.

He also didn’t remember being this mushy with the girlfriends. Drawing that circle all the way on the _masculine_ side might’ve been an overestimate.

“He invited me to a party?” Arthur’s eyes were round.

Mikkel nodded. “He wants to be friends again, I think. It sounded like he did.”

“Why? What did he say?”

“Well, I don’t know.” He didn’t want to try to recall the burn analogy, he’d probably say it wrong and offend somebody. “Just that he’s grown up now, I guess. He knows more now.”

Arthur nodded slowly, eyes drifting in thought.

“. . . Will you go?” Mikkel asked, when the silence stretched too thin.

“Oh,” Arthur said, like he’d forgotten he’d been invited to something beyond a relationship. “Um. Probably . . . not.” But it rose up at the end, like a balloon with too much helium.

Based on how he was already feeling, that should have been a relief. But it wasn’t, not at all. He didn’t want Arthur to stay in his shell. If all he got at the end of this was an Arthur who wasn’t afraid to take up space, then that was a solid outcome. _Look how selfless I am._ Tino would be proud. “Why not?”

“I’m not a party person.” Arthur fiddled with the straw in his juice box. “I don’t like crowds. And I won’t really know anyone there. I’d rather just talk to Francis privately. Maybe I should just message him on Facebook or something, I don’t know . . .”

“I won’t know anyone either,” Mikkel pointed out. “If we go together, it won’t be bad. We can have fun, just us.”

“We can do that at home.”

“But it’s different. There will be music and candy.” He should have asked Francis if there would be drinking. “And costumes. We can dress up.”

Arthur’s mouth slanted. “It’s not my thing.”

“You don’t have to go.” Mikkel shrugged. “But maybe it could be good. I think Francis really wants you to go.”

“Not enough to invite me himself.”

Well, that was true. But then again . . .

“Maybe he was nervous,” Mikkel offered.

Arthur scoffed. “Francis Bonnefoy has never been nervous in his life.”

“Maybe he was,” Mikkel insisted. “You haven’t been friends in a long time, right? Would you be nervous?”

_“Yes.”_

“Then maybe he is too. For the same reasons.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, incredulous, but he didn’t say anything right away. He sat, and he thought. The chatter of the cafeteria washed over them. Mikkel finished his carrots. Arthur tugged the straw fully out of his juice box. An orange-flavored droplet appeared on the table.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll ask Mum. She might not even say yes.” He pointed the straw at him. “And if she says I can but you can’t, I’m not going.”

Mikkel smiled. “Okay.”

Arthur looked at him, then shook his head to himself and picked up his cookie. “I’m going to regret this.”

Tino would have dredged up some wise proverb about learning from bad experiences, but Mikkel couldn’t think of anything catchy. He just took out his own cookie—Mrs. Kirkland made extra now that she knew he liked them—and knocked it gently against Arthur’s. “Cheers.”

Arthur shook his head again. “Skål.”

Mikkel laughed. Arthur might be scowling as he chewed, but his eyes were bright.

* * *

Mikkel kept glancing at Arthur at dinner, but those green eyes continually avoided his until Mrs. Kirkland finally noticed and asked, “Is something going on here? This feels like foreshadowing. I’ll remember this when something terrible happens later and regret asking now.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “It’s not _fore_ shadowing, Mum.”

She scrunched up her nose at him; Mikkel could see where Arthur got it from. They did look pretty similar in general, although Mrs. Kirkland had red hair and her eyebrows were way more thin. ( _She plucked them when she was my age,_ Arthur had told Mikkel just a week before. _Now they won’t grow back properly. Cautionary tale, I guess._ ) Still, she wore her forties well. Mikkel’s mother was in her early fifties, and his father was about to turn sixty—both of which only served as a reminder that he hadn’t been planned. ( _Not a mistake,_ his mother assured him. _A pleasant surprise._ Sometimes he wasn’t so sure, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.)

“What is it, then?” Mrs. Kirkland asked. “You’ve both got something on your minds.”

Mikkel raised an eyebrow at Arthur. He gave a sigh-shrug that Mikkel took to mean _by all means_ , so Mikkel said, “Francis invited us to a Halloween party at Antonio’s house.”

“Francis?” Now Mrs. Kirkland was looking at Arthur, eyes wide in surprise. “Finally?

“It’s not _finally_.” Arthur muttered that to the roll he was buttering. “It’s just Francis.”

He might’ve been lying, but it still made Mikkel smile around his fork.

“Well. That’s good news regardless, isn’t it? I know you’ve been—”

“I was just going to ask you if we’re allowed to go,” Arthur cut in. “But you probably don’t want Mikkel to because it’s a different country and his parents might not approve.”

“I don’t think his parents would have any problem with a Halloween party.” She glanced at Mikkel for confirmation, and he nodded. “So long as there’s no underage drinking. Which there won’t be. Correct?”

There was a knife blade disguised as a word. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Mikkel said.

“Obviously,” Arthur said.

“Good.” Her face lightened into a smile again. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to go, then. I think you should. It’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a change.”

Arthur huffed, but then he shifted in his chair. “Do you want me to take the car?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Do _I_ want _you_ to take the car?”

“Well. So you don’t have to drive us there and come get us.” He frowned. “I’m not asking anyone for a ride, before you say I should do that.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. I don’t mind driving you there and coming to get you. It would save me the trouble of worrying about you.” She chuckled softly. “Unless you’re really worried about looking _lame_ when your mother drops you off.”

“Nobody says _lame_ , this isn’t the ’90s.” Arthur tore a bite out of his roll. “And I don’t have any reputation to lose anyway.” He looked at them both, then stood up, cleared his plate off into the compost, dumped it into the sink, and stormed out.

Mrs. Kirkland watched him go, then turned to Mikkel.

“He’s not mad,” Mikkel told her. “Just nervous.”

“I know.” She crossed her fork and knife on her plate, pensive. “I just sometimes forget that he’s a teenager.” Then she stood up just as abruptly as her son had. “But I shouldn’t be telling you these things. It’s nothing for you to worry about. Leave the dishes to me, it’s not a lot. Go up and study for the sonnet quiz tomorrow.”

Mikkel obeyed, but he found Arthur’s door closed. He tapped his knuckle against it. No response.

So he went into his room and got his phone.

**Knock knock**

It took a moment, but it came.

**Who’s there?**

**Your best friend :)**

There was nothing, for minutes and minutes. Mikkel thought about sending another text, but he didn’t want to be pushy. So he got out the PowerPoint printouts on sonnets and grabbed the blue pieces of construction paper so he could read one line at a time.

Then. A knock on his door.

Mikkel sat up. “Come in.”

And Arthur did.

* * *

Luckily, their costumes could be found, at least in part, in Walmart. There would never be a shortage of vampire cloaks and plastic fangs—Arthur just gave Mikkel a look when he held up one of the toddler unicorn onesies—and, thanks to the upcoming release of the third movie, Mikkel didn’t have much trouble sourcing a Thor costume.

“I didn’t know you liked Marvel movies,” Arthur remarked. “I didn’t realize those were a thing in—”

“The rest of the world?” Mikkel said, amused. “I’ve seen all of the movies.”

Arthur looked impressed. “I’ve only seen one or two, on TV. You never said anything about liking them.”

“You never say anything about the books you read,” Mikkel pointed out.

“Because I don’t want to bore you.”

“Well.”

“You wouldn’t bore me. I just wouldn’t know anything about anyone.”

“Then we should see _Ragnarok_ ,” Mikkel declared. “Then we can talk about it.”

Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “The theatre in town is pathetic.”

“I don’t mind. I like pathetic things.”

Arthur’s attention snapped to him and Mikkel laughed, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Arthur put his fingers into his set of plastic fangs and made them snap at Mikkel’s nose. “I’ll tear your throat out.”

Mikkel would have hit Arthur over the head with his hammer, but the costume didn’t come with one for some reason. They’d already decided they’d make one with cereal boxes and a paper towel roll. “I’ll lightning you.”

“Electrocute,” Arthur corrected. “Lightning isn’t a verb.”

“But it’s _ing_ ,” Mikkel protested. “ _Ing_ is verb.”

Arthur laughed and patted his head. “Sometimes you’re cute.”

Mikkel stared at him.

Arthur realized how close they were standing and stepped away, then yanked a Batman costume round on the rack between them just for good measure. “You know, like a little lost dog. In the street. You feel bad.” He brightened. “I guess what I’m saying is you’re pathetic, too.”

“Oh!” Mikkel swept the costume out of the way, grinning. “We match!”

Arthur scoffed, but Mikkel heard him laugh as he ducked around a low rack of wigs.

They chased each other around the hanging costumes until Mrs. Kirkland came and told them it was time to go. They got a pizza to take home, which Mikkel fed to Arthur while he was busy taping his fingers to their crude attempt at Mjölnir and then vice versa when Mikkel had his hands covered in grey and brown paint.

Arthur got a little kit of undead makeup, too, but he didn’t open it. “I probably won’t even use it.”

But Mikkel saw him and how he was looking at it. He just let his mouth tug out. “Okay.”

* * *

Antonio’s house was a fifteen-minute drive away, and massive. There were a lot of Victorian-style houses around here, and Mikkel was pretty sure that’s what this was. Lots of peaks and swirly designs underneath the peaks. It made Mikkel want to draw it. Of course, it was all done up for Halloween, so there were orange lights strung along the roof and more jack-o-lanterns than anyone could hope to count. Rubber black cats and rats were strewn across the lawn. The windows were blacked out with paper which had been cut to look like spooky faces. A pair of skeletons held hands on the porch swing.

“Antonio has a flair for decorating,” Mrs. Kirkland remarked as she parked at the curb.

Mikkel nodded. Arthur didn’t look at either of them. He was trying not to let them see that he had concealer and eyeliner on, as if a bit of dodgy glances would hide that. “I expect it was Francis’s doing,” he said. “I’ll text you.”

“Call me,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “If you have to. Or send a messenger pigeon. Do whatever you have to do.”

Arthur risked a look in her direction. She smiled. He smiled too—faint and crooked from the fangs in his mouth—then opened his door. Mikkel trotted round the car to join him and they took the walk up to the door in stride. It was too quiet, even though the obligatory _Monster Mash_ was playing loud enough for them to hear clearly on the street, so Mikkel said, “I like your mom.”

“Why?”

Mikkel laughed. “Do I need a reason? She’s a good mom. That’s why.”

Arthur nodded absently, eyes fixated on the door. They were only two steps away now. Up onto the porch. He breathed in, breathed out. “Do . . . do we knock, or—”

The door opened, revealing Gilbert in, of all things, a cop uniform. Except it wasn’t just a cop uniform, because he had leather gloves on his hands, and a belt with a _flogger_ and pink furry handcuffs hanging on it, and those boots. Francis had gone all out on him this year.

“Oh, hey,” he said, touching the brim of his hat and smirking at them. “We were wondering if you’d show. Toni owes me twenty bucks.” He placed a companionable punch on Mikkel’s upper arm. “Nice look, big guy. You going to see the movie next week?”

Mikkel nodded. “Hopefully.” He could practically feel Arthur quivering next to him, but he didn’t know if going in all-at-once, like ripping off a bandaid, would be best or if he should take this in stages. “Is Francis around?”

“Somewhere,” Gilbert replied. “I think I saw him in the kitchen with Feli.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, if that was even possible. “I thought this was just our grade.”

“No, there are some grade nines and tens too.” Gilbert ushered them in and closed the door behind them. “Get in here. Toni’s parents are made of money but they don’t need to heat the outdoors.” He started to lead the way deeper into the house, but paused to say over his shoulder, “They’re not here, by the way, they’re at Fran’s place tonight. Little agreement. So long as we leave the place like they left it, we don’t need supervision. So don’t climb the walls.”

“Check out the party police!” cried Liz, erupting out of the living room to fall messily over Gilbert. She’d been Elizabeta back in elementary school, when she and Arthur were friends—when _everyone_ was friends. Then she was Eliza in middle school, when she became a girl interested in boys who were interested in girls. And now she was just Liz and was concerned exclusively with playing lacrosse (and her little love triangle, of course). “Put your hands in the air!”

Gilbert grinned, holding her up with his hands in not strictly appropriate places. She was dressed as some parody of Bo Peep, with a pink crop top and skirt and a yellow wig that was starting to come unstuck. If she’d had a crook, it was lost to time now. There was most certainly underage drinking at this party.

“I’ll catch you later,” Gilbert said. Whether it was addressed to Mikkel or Arthur or both was impossible to say, because then he was gone, smirking against Liz’s lips and leading her into another room down the hall.

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” Mikkel said, turning to Arthur.

“He doesn’t,” Arthur replied, pouncing on the distraction. “Well, they might consider themselves a couple, I don’t know. She dates Roderich for a while, then when she gets sick of him for being a wimpy music kid, she dates Gilbert. Then when she gets sick of not having a sensitive guy around, she goes back to Roderich. She’s been in rebound for about two years.”

“Huh,” Mikkel said, because he couldn’t think of anything better. He wondered how Arthur knew that, but he figured he knew. Life on the fringes wasn’t good for many things, but it did allow you to become a silent observer. Arthur had a warped lens, but he did a lot of observing. “Want to find Francis?” he asked, since that was the whole point of this exercise. (As far as Arthur was concerned, anyway.)

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, but he didn’t sound convinced. “The kitchen is this way.”

He led the way. Mikkel tried to imagine him as a little kid, running around this place with little versions of Francis and Antonio and Gilbert. He couldn’t really see it, even though he’d seen the family photographs in the Kirkland living room. Mrs. Kirkland and her brood of red-haired boys, and little Arthur the blond sheep on the end. He could picture that little boy sitting in his room, reading a book, or maybe playing with butterflies in the garden. Never with other people, though. Maybe it was just because he didn’t know what these guys looked like as kids. Francis probably looked like one of those pageant girls on TV.

There was no sign of Francis nor Antonio in the kitchen, but Feliciano and Lovino were in here—dressed as cats, by the look of it—among other people. This seemed to be the source of the alcohol; there was a wide selection of pop bottles on the counter, and a big bowl of something red that seemed to have eyeballs and gummy worms floating in it. Mikkel actually felt a little tug toward the fridge, where some guy he recognized from history was holding up a bottle of something that was most definitely not pop. Mikkel was no stranger to parties back home. He and Berwald had gotten into, arguably, more than their fair share of trouble. If they’d been caught for even half of it, Mikkel probably wouldn’t be standing here right now. Or anywhere; his father would probably have put him in a wheelchair. Tino was the steadying element, though. He didn’t drink, and he knew how to control Berwald, and Berwald in turn knew how to control Mikkel. They were doing alright without him. He was doing alright without them.

 _I can’t get drunk,_ he thought. _Then there won’t be anyone to look out for Arthur._

And Mrs. Kirkland would find out and there would be serious consequences, but that was the only reason he cared about.

“Uh, Feli,” Arthur said, the nickname awkward in his mouth. (Or maybe it was just those fangs.) “D’you know where Francis is?”

“Mew,” replied Feliciano, and mimed licking the back of his hand. This sent him into a fit of giggles.

“He’s drunk.” Lovino rolled his eyes. “Francis is probably in the living room. That’s why we came in here.”

Mikkel wondered what he meant by that, but Arthur didn’t ask, just nodded to them and turned away. The living room offered no better results, but they did partake in some of the candy, of which there was a mountain set up on a long table. The rest of the partygoers were all sitting or standing and not doing much more exciting than talking and drinking and eating. Mikkel heard a couple people say a phrase that snagged his attention.

“What is bobbing?” he asked as they crossed the hall.

“What?” Arthur peeked into the room Gilbert and Liz had gone into. They were still in there, on one of the couches. It must have been a parlor or something. Arthur continued on. “What did you say?”

“Bobbing.”

“Like, apple-bobbing?”

Mikkel shrugged. _Spooky Scary Skeletons_ was playing for the third time. Dubstep had never been his thing.

“Bobbing for apples is you have apples in a big bucket or something and you have to get them out with your mouth. No hands. I don’t know why it’s called _bobbing._ The apples bob up and down in the water, I guess.” There was a little room near the door full of coats and boots, but no Francis. “I give up. He must be upstairs.”

“You can’t talk to him up there?”

“Well. I can. But if he isn’t down here, he’s probably throwing up. Actually, if Toni isn’t down here, _Toni’s_ probably throwing up and Francis is helping him. That would be like Francis. He likes knowing all these people want to see him, but he doesn’t want to see any of them.”

Mikkel didn’t know how much of that bitterness was warranted, but that did seem pretty realistic based on what he’d seen of Francis. “Okay. So what do you want to do?”

Arthur sighed, taking out his phone. “I want to not be here. But it’s only been twenty minutes.”

Mikkel was surprised to hear that. He expected half an hour at the very least. “You think we should stay longer.”

“I don’t want to make Mum come this early. This is why it would’ve been easier for me to take the car.” He put his phone back into his pocket. He was wearing skinny jeans under his cloak. And black-laced Converse, which Mikkel found kind of hilarious considering he’d bought the laces specifically for tonight.

“We could get some chips,” Mikkel suggested. He’d only had two mini chocolate bars before, and now his stomach was growling at the sight of all that junk food. (His family wasn’t into that. Their idea of junk food was drinking wine younger than him.) “And some Pepsi.”

“I hate Pepsi.”

Mikkel nudged Arthur’s shoulder with his arm. “I was tricking you. Vampires can’t drink Pepsi.”

“Oh.” He smiled wearily, more a lightness to his face than anything. “I didn’t know that.”

Mikkel nodded. “It’s true.”

“And can Norse gods drink Pepsi?”

“Of course.” He puffed out his chest, laying the accent on thick and dipping his voice down low. “But we prefer mead.”

Arthur laughed at that, even though he still looked pretty drained by being at this party. They went back into the living room and filled up little trick-or-treat baggies with candy and chips, then went to the kitchen so Mikkel could get a cup of Pepsi and Athur could get a cup of water from the sink. Then they went and sat on the stairs, high up enough that they wouldn’t have any drunkards falling on them or interrupting their conversation.

“So you used to come here?” Mikkel asked. “As a kid?”

Arthur nodded. “Not a lot. It was usually Francis’s house. I mean, his old house. He used to live in the one behind mine. He’d walk across and get on the bus with me.”

Mikkel raised his eyebrows. Why hadn’t he been told all this? _None of your business._ “Something must have happened,” he said. “He wouldn’t invite you and not talk to you. Maybe he had an emergency.”

“Maybe,” Arthur said glumly. “Or maybe he’s just passed out with Toni on the bathroom floor up there.”

Mikkel looked at him, this sad little vampire, then stood up. “Let’s go see, then.”

“No.” Arthur lifted his head in alarm. “Do you see anyone else going up there? The party is downstairs.”

“We didn’t come here for the party,” Mikkel said. Which was mostly true, he saw now. Arthur had not blossomed. If anything, he’d wilted. It was possible Mikkel was blocking him from the sun . . . but maybe he was just thinking too hard with the metaphor.

“Mikkel,” Arthur said, because he was already at the top of the stairs. He bounded after him, abandoning their cups and candy. _“Mikkel—”_

That was the most Arthur had ever said his name. It sounded good on his lips.

Mikkel knocked on the first door he came to, then opened it. The light from the hall half-illuminated an empty bathroom. “No Francis. No Toni.”

Arthur stared at the room, then at the floor. Mikkel knew it wasn’t about wondering where Francis was now. It was just about the fact that Arthur had gotten his hopes up, and now he was being let down.

“Hey.” All of a sudden Mikkel wanted to touch his face, but that didn’t feel allowed. He’d never touched anything above Arthur’s shoulders, except maybe his hair once. “Hey,” he said again. “Let’s be spies.”

“Spies,” Arthur echoed. They both knew what he was talking about: the stories he’d told Mikkel on one of those nights where they studied themselves brainless and Mikkel lay on the bed, Arthur on the floor, and they both stared up at the ceiling and said things they would never admit looking each other in the eye. Like: _When I was a kid, I used to pretend to be a spy. I used to sneak into all kinds of places and take notes on them in a little notepad I had. They caught me in a store room in the grocery store and Mum made me stop._

“Spies,” Mikkel agreed. “Let’s find Toni’s secrets.”

Arthur shook his head, but he smiled too. “I think his room is down here . . .”

They passed two closed doors and came to one left ajar. Arthur hung back, so Mikkel did the honors in pushing it open.

It was a big room. Oddly white, for someone with Antonio’s personality; the only sources of color were the medals and trophies on the wall and the bed, which was the central point of the room. The bedspread was done like a sea sunset, all blue and yellow and orange. But they couldn’t really see it because there were two bodies on top of the bed, one with legs spread and the other splayed across. It took Mikkel a moment to piece together what exactly he was looking at. Eventually, he realized it was this:

Francis, done up as a Playboy bunny, complete with black ears and gloves and miniskirt, was on the bottom.

Antonio, red-white-black in a matador outfit, was on top. His hat had fallen onto the floor beside the bed.

They were kissing, but when the door creaked, they stopped. Antonio looked up. Francis didn’t move; he just closed his eyes slowly, like it hurt.

“What the fuck?” Antonio said, but it was wrong. It was like he couldn’t move his mouth properly. And he wasn’t talking, he was roaring. “Get the fuck out! _What the fuck are you doing here?”_

Mikkel moved in front of Arthur, but Francis had already taken Antonio’s arm and _Toni, Toni, it’s okay, I invited them, it’s alright, they won’t tell, please just calm down_ and Mikkel shepherded Arthur downstairs before anything else could be said. Arthur didn’t stop walking, so Mikkel followed his momentum and they went straight out the door, down the path, out to the curb. It was fully dark now; no one was driving. It was just the lights from windows across the street and the street lamp on the corner.

Arthur was shaking. Not just his hands, but all of him. Mikkel took his elbows. “He wasn’t talking to you. It’s not your fault.”

 _“Stop.”_ Arthur tried to turn away, but not enough to free himself from Mikkel’s hold. His voice was shaking too. He spat the fake fangs out into the gutter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Jesus. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Talk like that.” He sounded like he was crying, but no tears had fallen yet, and he was moving too much for Mikkel to see his face. “God. I knew this was a waste of my time. Now they both fucking hate me. They’ll tell everyone I’m a pervert or something—”

“They won’t. Didn’t you see how drunk he was?” Mikkel shook his head. “He won’t remember any of this.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. Maybe he couldn’t. Mikkel had never seen someone so upset and yet somehow not crying because of it. How did he hold everything inside that tiny body without exploding? Or bleeding out internally, so no one could tell it was happening until it was too late . . .

All at once, Mikkel framed Arthur’s face in his hands. Now Arthur had no choice; he looked up at him. His eyes were bright with unfallen tears and sick with fear; he looked like a wild animal caged, made all the more intense by that eyeliner and the shadows of the night. He looked _different_ normally, but tonight he was something else entirely.

“Forget about tonight,” Mikkel said. “Tonight doesn’t matter.”

“It does—”

“No. It doesn’t. You were right, if Francis wants to be friends, he can come and talk to you himself. He did this wrong. But _you_ did nothing wrong.” He was stroking one of Arthur’s cheeks with his thumb. Arthur looked like he might shatter, but Mikkel didn’t think it was because of the thumb. He hoped not, anyway. “I was the one who wanted to go upstairs. And I wanted you to come to the party. So it’s my fault.” This wasn’t where he’d intended to take it, but it was all he had. “So you can hate me now. You can tell me to never talk to you again.”

“No,” Arthur said. Just one syllable, but it still broke in his throat.

“You can tell me to stop touching you.”

“No,” Arthur whispered. Barely audible.

“You can tell me not to kiss you.”

Arthur’s tears finally fell, streaking black trails through his concealer. But he didn’t look away from Mikkel’s eyes, and though it made no sound, his lips said _no._

And they were still making that tiny _o_ when Mikkel leaned down to kiss him.

It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it. Why would he ever imagine their first kiss happening outside a party they’d more or less been kicked out of? He was crazy, but not _that_ crazy. And, honestly, he hadn’t ever put any stakes on the faint fantasies of kissing Arthur. He’d known there was a really good chance it wouldn’t ever happen.

But it was happening. And nothing would’ve stopped it from happening, if he didn’t need to breathe.

He pulled back. Arthur’s eyes stayed closed, his lips still slightly parted. Mikkel had never seen him with his eyes closed before. He’d never seen him so willingly vulnerable.

Arthur’s eyelids had freckles on them, too.

Mikkel could still feel the kiss in his lips. He could feel it everywhere, actually. This was the first time he’d ever kissed a boy. _New. Different. Good. Perfect._

“I want to die,” Arthur said, very clearly.

Mikkel blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because look at what _happened_ tonight.” His eyes were open now, bright enough to blind. He sounded like he might start laughing, or crying. “This is insanity. None of this is real. I feel like I fell out of my life. I’m still falling.”

Mikkel knew precisely what he meant.

“It’s okay to feel like that,” he said. “Everybody does. Sometimes.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

“Maybe this is real life,” he offered, “and you’ve just been asleep this whole time.”

The other eyebrow joined the first.

“Either way. Don’t worry about falling.” Mikkel smiled. “I’ll catch you.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, brow low on his eyes, then lowered his head. He shook it, slowly, twice. He exhaled. Then he lifted himself back up and, with a shrug and a sigh and a blush blooming under his concealer, he said, “Okay.”

* * *

**Good night :)**

**Good night.**

**Sleep tight :)**

**Mikkel**

**Don’t let the vampire bite :P**

**Enough for one night**

**So I can’t say I love you ?**

**NO**

**OK**

**Thank you.**

**For what ?**

**You**

**:)**


	4. November

_This is real. This is happening. This is my life._

Arthur could say it to himself as many times as he wanted. It still wouldn’t sink in.

Mikkel had kissed him. And they were dating now.

Were they dating? He was afraid to ask. He’d said _okay_ and sort of assumed that, since they were touching lips, they were now boyfriends. Wasn’t that how it worked? You didn’t have one-night stands just for kissing, right?

 _Boyfriends._ God.

He didn’t say anything to Mikkel over breakfast. He didn’t plan on saying anything on the way to the bus stop, either, but then Mikkel picked up both their backpacks at the front door.

“Don’t carry my bag,” Arthur said, grabbing one of the straps.

Mikkel looked surprised. “Why?”

“Because.” Arthur tugged until Mikkel’s man hand released—those hands had felt so good on his face last night he almost teared up again when he thought about it now—and shrugged the bag onto his shoulders. “Because it makes me feel like a girl.”

“Girls can’t carry bags?”

“ _You_ implied that, not me.” Arthur opened the door and gestured, raising an eyebrow.

Mikkel’s brow rose as well, then he grinned. “Okay. I see how it is.”

They still walked side-by-side, but now Mikkel was closer to him. Before, Arthur had been always conscious of maintaining a certain amount of space between them at all times. Now, he was still hyper aware of it, but Mikkel made it impossible to stay away. On the bus, Arthur got in the seat first and Mikkel folded himself in so their hips were jammed together.

Arthur could rest his head on Mikkel’s shoulder if he leaned just slightly.

He leaned the other way. The window felt cold even through his hair.

“So,” Mikkel said as the bus shuddered away from the curb.

Arthur watched him in his peripheral vision. Those blue eyes were staring amiably at him, as usual.

“Do you still like me?”

Arthur lifted his head. _So much for playing it cool._ “Of course I still like you. I just don’t know why you still _want_ me to like you.”

“Everybody wants people to like them.”

“Not like that.” Arthur gestured to Mikkel, then to himself. “I don’t understand why someone like _you_ would bother with someone like me. And I know what you said about feeling nervous, but you’re not nervous like this. You don’t have mental breakdowns at parties. You’re way more normal than I am.”

“So?” Mikkel repeated. This was a different _so_ than before, but he said it with the same pleasantly expectant expression on his face.

“So I’m a waste of your time. You could do way better than me.” The volume of the bus had one of its random lulls, so he ducked down a bit and lowered his voice to a murmur. “And you’re not going to be here forever. I told you. There’s no point getting attached.”

“But I did get attached,” Mikkel said. “So did you.”

Arthur opened his mouth but no sound came out. He’d become a faerie; he couldn’t lie.

“I’m not worried about that anyway,” he went on. “That’s months from now. I’m only thinking about right now. You are not smiling, and I want to make you smile. That’s what I’m thinking about.”

Arthur shook his head. He could feel the tears coming, somewhere around his throat. “ _This._ This is why this won’t work. Because no matter what you say to me, I have a breakdown.”

“We can work on that,” Mikkel said, and took his hand.

 _Oh._ He’d forgotten about the hand-holding. This was much better. Physical affection, as difficult as it was to initiate, was so uncomplicated compared to the hell of words. You didn’t have to look someone in the eye when you held their hand. And it said what you felt more plainly than words ever could. The way Mikkel cradled Arthur’s hand was all he needed to know.

Arthur breathed in. Arthur breathed out.

“We can’t do this where people can see us,” he said firmly. “I’m not out to the school. Everyone probably assumes, whatever, but they don’t know for sure. My family doesn’t know. So this is our secret.”

“Our secret,” Mikkel agreed.

“And you can’t carry my bag. Or my books. Or anything like that.”

“Okay.”

Arthur stared at him, unable to think of any more conditions. _You know you want to. Just do it. If this bus gets into an accident and you die, you’ll think for all eternity about how you could have done it and you didn’t._

Arthur rested his head on Mikkel’s shoulder.

Mikkel gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then let his own head rest against Arthur’s.

They were touching in more places than they had ever touched.

“You should,” Arthur said, soft enough that some syllables were stolen by the swearing in the backmost seats. “You should think about months from now. It’ll come soon. Then you’ll have to think about it. And you’ll regret this.”

Mikkel shook his head, just a little one. Their hair whispered together. “I won’t regret it.” Arthur could _feel_ the rumble of his voice, through his cheek. He closed his eyes. “We can still talk, when I go. I won’t stop existing.”

_But I will._

Arthur didn’t say that. He stayed silent until they got to the school, so he could just savor the closeness and the warmth of Mikkel’s hand. If he couldn’t convince Mikkel to stop caring about him, he might as well just dig their grave bigger. You couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved. And there was no point trying to close himself off to Mikkel.

The Danish bastard had been holding his heart in those ridiculously long fingers since September.

* * *

Arthur had biology first period, which meant Mikkel had chemistry, which meant they parted ways on the third floor. The teacher’s brow furrowed when she did attendance. Arthur risked a glance around the room. The tables were set up as pods, and two of them were completely empty. No Liz, and no Antonio. Arthur wondered how many of them were hungover in bed, playing sick. He wondered, too, how long Antonio and Francis had taken to clean up the house after the party.

The image of them on the bed came again, as it had a hundred times since that moment last night. _Francis and Antonio._ So he wasn’t the only one with secrets. _How about that._ He tried to remember if there’d been any hints to that, when they were kids. Francis had always been in touch with his feminine side, but he’d had girlfriends. Antonio had dated almost every girl in their grade, and some seniors too. But they were both what could be called _pretty boys._ They looked good together. Of course they did; they were both like models.

_Get the fuck out!_

It still felt like a heart attack. Like a million tiny heart attacks under his skin.

The teacher handed out lab assignments. Arthur sighed internally. It wasn’t his thing in general—that was Liam, forever messing about over the toy lab kits he got for Christmas—but they almost _always_ required a partner, which was just insulting. The work could easily be done by one person; they just didn’t have enough materials to go around that far. So Arthur lingered by the door, watching everyone pair up in that mindless haze of first period. A quick count . . . _oh, great._

“Arthur,” said the teacher, like she’d forgotten he existed and he’d just turned up out of nowhere. “I guess we have an odd number today. You can go with . . .”

She cast around the room. Arthur knew she was looking for the ones with the lowest grades, so he’d end up doing all the work while they copied everything he wrote down. He opened his mouth to say he really didn’t mind working on his own, but then there was a knock on the door. Because he was the closest, Arthur stepped over to open it.

Antonio stood in the doorway, a little out of breath and a cup of coffee in his hand. His eyes were pink (which was an improvement from the bloodshot they were last night) and his face was puffy. His shirt was done up wrong; the bottom hung farther on one side, the final hole without a button. And his hair was just a pile of still-wet curls on top of his head.

“Hi,” he said, offering a pink slip of paper to the teacher. “Sorry. Slept through my alarm.”

The teacher smiled, because everyone always smiled at Antonio. Arthur wondered if he worked at the charm, or if it was just defaulted into his genes. “No worries,” she said, taking the late slip. “You can be Arthur’s partner. We’re working with microscopes today.”

Antonio looked at Arthur. He didn’t shout or glare. He just gave him a dude nod and set down his bag and coffee cup on the desk across from Arthur’s. He dug through his backpack and made a noise in the back of his throat. “You don’t have a pencil or something I can borrow?”

Arthur offered him a pencil and a pen from his binder. Antonio took the pencil. It had bite marks in it, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Thanks.” As they followed the teacher over to the bio lab, Antonio asked, “Did you go to the party last night?”

Arthur stared at him. “. . . Yeah. Gilbert said you owed him twenty bucks.”

“Oh.” Antonio kind of laughed. “I forgot about that. Sorry. Yeah, I haven’t seen Gil yet today.”

 _Have you seen Francis?_ No, Arthur wasn’t that much of a masochist. Mikkel was right, then. Alcohol did indeed have magical memory-wiping powers. “Me neither.” They took down their stools from the counter in unison. The pause went just a moment too long before Arthur said, “But I saw him with Liz last night.”

“Really? God.” Antonio grinned lazily, shaking his head. “He’s gotta stop, man. I keep telling him. No offense to her, but Jesus.”

 _Man._ Arthur felt like he was going to burst into flames. Was this _allowed_? “She was drunker than he was. Or she looked like it, anyway.”

“He can put away quite a few.” Antonio eased himself down. “Did you wanna grab the stuff?”

Arthur blinked, then came out of it. “Yeah. Right.” So he went and got the microscope and the slides and set everything up while Antonio sat there and looked tragically sexy. Arthur hadn’t realized that was Francis’s type; he would’ve assumed he liked the big strong ones, but maybe that was stereotyping. He totally understood the appeal of someone like Antonio, but that was why he didn’t like it. It was too easy to be attracted to someone like him.

Not that it was difficult with Mikkel. It was just . . . different.

 _I have a boyfriend._ Arthur kept thinking that, over and over again while he and Antonio sat there in the lab doing diagrams of animal and plant cells. _I have a secret boyfriend. And so do you._ It never stopped feeling scandalous. It never stopped feeling special.

There was really no reason to have been so afraid of Antonio. He was gorgeous, but he was also hungover and goofy—he arranged the bits of his cell to look like a smiley face even though Arthur warned he’d lose points for it—and he didn’t know how to spell half of the Latin they were expected to use on the exam. He only looked perfect on the outside.

“Good talking to you,” Antonio said when they were packing up. “You should come get lunch with us sometime.”

Now that it was getting too cold to play sports at lunchtime, Antonio was forever piling Gilbert and Francis and the Vargases into his car and driving them somewhere to get food. (Gilbert drove to school, too, but he had a motorcycle. Shockingly, Ludwig preferred the bus to riding on the back of it.) Arthur had never left school grounds in the middle of the day, except for a field trip or something like that. He kept forgetting that they were one year away from being legal adults. He kept forgetting they didn’t need to be supervised.

“Your giant roommate can come too,” Antonio added.

One half of Arthur’s mouth smiled before he could jump on it. He controlled the other half. Fond smiling was not covert. “I’ll, ah, think about it.”

Antonio nodded. He took a sip of coffee and winced. Arthur wondered if there was alcohol in it. That was a thing people did, right? _Hair of the dog?_ He almost asked about it, but stopped himself. The bell was ringing anyway. He hurried out to go find Mikkel. They’d have a few precious seconds to _accidentally_ brush arms on the way to English.

The fact that Mikkel didn’t make him feel like a child—despite the size of him—was one of Arthur’s favorite things about him.

* * *

Today seemed to be intent on rivalling last night for its inventory of shocks, because Francis sat beside Arthur in French class.

Francis never sat next to anyone in French class. They had been forbidden to ask him for help with anything years ago, back when they first started taking French in elementary school. _Francis knows more French than you do. He isn’t allowed to help you cheat._ French was required until high school, but Francis must have enjoyed it because he still signed up every year. Arthur often wondered if he took it just to have a break from the adoring public. He always sat as far away from everyone else as he could get—he had his own private table at the back, one year—and did advanced work the teacher made up specially for him. But today he pulled out a chair right next to Arthur’s, sat down, and smiled at him.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Hey.”

“Bonjour.” Francis winked. The teacher wasn’t ready yet, but the No English rule still stood.

“Bonjour,” Arthur echoed, watching him take out his folders and purple pens. He had a rainbow of gel pens in his bag. He always dotted his _i_ s with hearts. And he had a wristful of jangly bracelets on. Arthur didn’t know why he’d spent so much time thinking Francis was straight. _But he’s never been to the GSA . . ._ As if that meant anything. The GSA was a waste of Francis’s time.

People were glancing over at them, but nobody was whispering. Arthur saw head after head duck down. _Do you think you’re being sneaky?_ At least Mrs. Kirkland was upfront about phone usage in her classroom: _I don’t care if you text, but do it on your desks. I don’t like watching you all stare at your laps. And if you all end up hunchbacked, I’ll feel negligent._ Every other class, though, it was just pitiful.

A piece of paper slid onto Arthur’s desk. Francis’s handwriting was half-cursive and flowy.

_Can I talk to you after class?_

Arthur looked over, but Francis was busying himself with his papers. Everything was color-coded, by the look of it, but it was still a disorganized nightmare. (Mikkel’s was worse, but he was getting better. Arthur was training him.)

_Sure._

Too disinterested? Too happy? Too generic?

Whatever. Arthur pushed the paper back onto Francis’s desk.

The teacher started talking—everyone squinted at him, only understanding a quarter of what he was saying—but in the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Francis smile.

* * *

Francis took forever putting his things away, but Arthur realized this was by design, because of how many people came by to ask what his plans for lunch and after school were. And, bizarrely, he gave each of them a different response, but all of it was rejection. _I’m going with Toni and Gil. Sorry, not tonight, I have violin. Oh, I have a family thing. I know. Tomorrow, okay? Feli and Lovi need help with the mural. We’re not even half done._

“The mural?” Arthur echoed, when the last of the beggars had been turned away. “What mural?”

“For the winter dance,” Francis replied, standing at last. At Arthur’s blank expression, he said, “You haven’t been to a winter semi-formal before! We do a mural every year. We do one for prom, too, but I don’t know _what_ the theme will be this year . . . Anyway, this time for winter it’s penguins in tuxedos. It was Feli’s idea, he is adorable.”

Why was it that Francis being friends with a grade nine felt normal, but Arthur always felt weird talking to Alfred and Matthew? Not entirely weird, just—surface level weird. _Because you’re shallow,_ Arthur told himself. _That’s why._

“That’s clever,” he said, just to have something to say. “So, er—”

“Here, come this way.” Francis beckoned him the wrong way down the hall, to the stairwell past the shop class doors. “So we won’t get interrupted.”

He was right; Arthur had only ever been down here for a fire drill. “I, um, I want to apologize—”

“No.” Francis held up a hand. His bracelets jingled. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I wanted to talk to you so _I_ could apologize.”

Arthur closed his mouth and waited.

Francis lowered his hand, breathing out slowly. “Okay. Well. First of all, I should not have done things like I did. I thought I could . . . it doesn’t matter. I thought wrong. I didn’t think enough. I should have just talked to you, but I was worried if I did that I would scare you away.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed a little.

“Not like you are probably thinking. I mean, we always used to argue, remember?” Francis smiled faintly. “So I was worried we would do that again, but it would be—different, and you would hate me. And I thought maybe you already hated me.”

“I guess I sort of did,” Arthur said. _Hated is a strong word. More like resented._

“But not anymore?” Francis’s smile turned hopeful.

Arthur shrugged. He didn’t want to get too mushy. He still needed some control. And he was only human; this felt powerful, being the one who could take the wind out of Francis Bonnefoy’s stylish sails.

Francis nodded, like he hadn’t expected hugs and tears. “That’s not all. I need to apologize for last night. I should have just had your number, I should have told you to text me if you were coming. I didn’t know . . .” He looked down at the floor. Arthur saw him swallow. “Last night was really hard on Toni. He’s been . . . having a hard time for a while now.”

This was news. He always looked his regular happy-go-lucky self. Yes, he had a bit of smolder to him now, a bit of darkness, but Arthur just assumed he’d cultivated that to appeal to the daddy issues girls. He didn’t think people so pretty could have actual problems.

“I didn’t know,” Arthur said, “you two were . . .”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Francis said suddenly. Then the intensity faded slightly. “I know you wouldn’t, but.” His shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. “It’s just . . . his family is religious. He was raised that way. I was, too, but not like that. It’s harder for him. It . . .” His gaze drifted, a hand rising to twirl a strand of his hair, a habit he’d had since they were tiny and he’d twirl while he sucked his thumb. “. . . it just takes time.”

Arthur stared at him. He didn’t recognize his voice when it came out. “Does Toni know?”

Dark blue eyes rose, studied him, and softened with sorrow. “No.”

“God . . .”

“He doesn’t get totally wasted _every_ time.” Francis scuffed his boot over the floor mat. “Over the summer, he was doing really well. His parents went to Spain and he stayed here, with me. But now . . .” He shook his head, pushed hair behind his ears, and fixed a composed smile on Arthur. “He just has to make it to summer again, then he’ll be happy. We’ll be happy. But please don’t tell anyone. I beg you.”

This last was said mostly in a playful tone, but Arthur wasn’t fooled. “I won’t. Promise.”

Francis inclined his head. “Thank you.” He offered a smile. “Did you want to come to lunch with us? We can squeeze you in. And Mikkel, if he wants to come. Gil doesn’t mind taking his bike.”

Arthur could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. He was supposed to be meeting Mikkel at the fountain right now. He shook his head. Too much, too fast. He didn’t know them well enough yet. It would be like lunch with strangers.

“Not this time,” he replied. “Maybe you could give me your number.”

Francis hesitated one second, then nodded and held out his hand. Arthur blinked, then realized what he wanted and unlocked his phone, passing it over. “Just don’t show this to anyone, even if they ask,” Francis said as he typed it in. “This is my second number of high school.”

“ _Oh,_ yeah.” Arthur seemed to recall a little incident last year wherein Francis’s number had spread through this school and the ones half an hour away. He remembered thinking, _That’s what happens when you have friends in sports._ Francis went to all of Gilbert and Antonio’s games; he’d dated more girls in other schools than this one. _Maybe boys, too?_ This wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask in a stairwell, though. Truths like that would come later, when Francis felt they should. “I forgot about that.”

“Mmm.” Francis gave him an unfunny smile as he handed the phone back. “Well, I will text you tonight?”

Arthur nodded. “Okay.”

Francis’s smile warmed now. “Au revoir, mon ami.”

At the fountain, Mikkel’s concerned brow cleared with his smile when he saw Arthur. “Did you get lost?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, walking too fast at him so his chest bumped into Mikkel’s arm.

Mikkel fell into step beside him, grinning. “Where’d you come from?”

“Your dreams,” Arthur replied. He felt high, if high meant he could say whatever he liked.

“Oh, that explains it.”

Arthur wanted to bite his chin, but he controlled himself, because biting counted as PDA in the fine print of the policy.

* * *

Arthur was worried, a bit, about Mikkel getting jealous, but it was a waste of emotion as usual. Mikkel knew Francis wanted to be his friend. He knew Gilbert and Antonio were included as a package deal. And, now, he knew that they were dating—so no matter how many old or new friends Arthur made, Mikkel was always top of the list.

And besides: Arthur was pretty sure Gilbert and Antonio liked Mikkel more than they liked him.

Now, when they needed four-person teams in gym, Gilbert and Antonio always ran over to Arthur and Mikkel. It wasn’t exactly an even match, but Gilbert and Antonio didn’t take it as seriously as Arthur thought. _Don’t worry,_ Gilbert said regularly, _we’ll go easy on ya._ And Antonio would scoff. _Put a tall guy and a short guy together and you basically have two normal guys._ And Mikkel would say, _Is this how you do math in North America?_ And they’d all laugh and keep it going. Arthur got so distracted in the joy of tossing words around, he forgot about the torture of the physical throwing.

Lately they were doing a blend of yoga and gymnastics; they’d got the slow, meditative part over with and now it was all balance stances and somersaults. They were like cheerleaders making a pyramid, and who was always assigned the place on top?

“Get up there, tree-topper,” Gilbert said, doing very well to pretend he wasn’t immensely uncomfortable.

“Don’t step on my balls, please,” Antonio said, not even trying to fake it.

“Be careful,” Mikkel said, for the fiftieth time since they’d started this unit.

They all hated it, but Arthur wasn’t complaining for once. Having to touch them all so much was awkward, but it was a damn sight better than running around trying to get a ball into a net with a stick. _Who comes up with any of this?_

Arthur only stayed on top of them all long enough for the teacher to okay it; then they all fell apart, sprawling on the blue mats. Gilbert rolled his head over to look at Antonio. “Balls intact?”

Antonio sat up, shifted a bit, then offered a thumbs-up to Arthur.

“I’ll try harder next time,” Arthur told him.

On one miserable, sleety day they did what the teacher called _creative relays_ where they had to get to one end of the gym and back without walking or running. They hopped. They rolled. They crawled. And, inevitably:

“This time,” said the sadistic teacher, “you’re going to carry one of your team there and back.”

Other teams went up in protest, but there was no such squabbling here. Three pairs of eyes went straight to Arthur.

“No,” he said.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” Gilbert said. He was grinning.

“Don’t say it like that, it sounds rapey,” Antonio said. Also grinning.

“Do it this way,” Mikkel said, before Arthur could get passionate about his arguments. “Lay down.”

“Mikk—”

“C’mon,” Antonio urged, flapping a hand. “We’re losing our lead.”

Arthur glared at him, but Mikkel’s eyes were amused, gentle, _assuring._ He wouldn’t let anything happen. So Arthur got down on the floor and crossed his arms over his chest like a dead man. “The three of you standing over me like that is nightmare fuel, I’d just like you to know.”

They ignored him; they were listening to Mikkel, who put Gilbert at Arthur’s head and Antonio at his feet. The pair of them slipped their hands under Arthur and lifted him up with surprisingly little effort. Arthur didn’t actually know how much he weighed, but apparently not too much for three people to carry.

Arthur saw now why Mikkel made sure he was in the middle. Gilbert’s hands were on Arthur’s shoulders. Antonio’s hands were on his legs. And Mikkel’s were _supposed_ to be on his hips. Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. Mikkel snuck him a wink and kindly stopped squeezing his ass.

When the teacher ran out of ideas and gave them free time, they dragged several mats together and Gilbert dragged Mikkel down for an impromptu wrestling match. Antonio grinned and nudged Arthur. “Tag-team!”

“No, no, not tag team.” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “You go ahead. Mick can take you both.”

“Oh yeah? You wanna do two-on-one, big guy?”

“I have to now,” Mikkel said, breaking out of Gilbert’s headlock. He was smirking, though, and soon the three of them were rolling about in a pile of testosterone and Arthur was circling them, ostensibly acting referee while also taking several mental pictures. Why did Mikkel’s shirt riding up look so much more scandalous than his bare chest in the changing room?

Antonio and Mikkel stayed behind to shower, so Arthur followed Gilbert out into the hall. He watched Gilbert drink from the fountain until it occurred to him that standing here in silence was creepy, so he said, “You didn’t want a shower?”

Gilbert took one last sip and stood up straight, wiping his chin. “Why? Do I smell?”

“No,” Arthur said, which he would’ve said regardless. He didn’t think they were at the point of scalding honesty yet. “I’ve never smelled you.”

That part was true. Antonio smelled like AXE. Mikkel smelled like Old Spice. But Gilbert never smelled like anything. (Francis never smelled like one particular scent. Arthur assumed he had a cologne or perfume or whatever for every day of the month.)

“I don’t sweat,” Gilbert said.

Arthur waited, but no punch line followed it. “Like, at all?”

“Nah. I have hypohidrosis.”

“Oh.” _Is there any condition you don’t have?_ “Since, uh, when?”

“Well, forever, I guess, but I found out in middle school. It’s not gonna kill me, don’t worry.” He moved away from the fountain so a shy girl could fill up her water bottle. “I mean, it could, if I was stupid and got heatstroke, but I’m pretty smart.”

Arthur considered him, then nodded. “Yeah, I’d give you pretty smart. Maybe moderately smart.”

Gilbert chuckled. “You never stopped being a little bastard. I’m glad you’re not avoiding us anymore.”

“ _I_ wasn’t avoiding _you_ —”

“No?”

Arthur stopped, for a moment, and thought about it. Maybe it looked like that from the outside. Or maybe it was the truth. “Well, you lot could have struck up a conversation any time. I wasn’t going to bite you.”

Gilbert looked dubious. “We thought you didn’t want friends.”

Arthur scoffed, but he stopped himself before he spoke. Maybe it looked like that from the outside . . . _or maybe it was the truth._ But things were different now. He didn’t feel so dark on the inside anymore. He didn’t feel like he needed to make himself as small as possible, so the world had less to look at. “Everyone wants friends. Even if they say they don’t.”

Now Gilbert smiled thoughtfully at him, and that wise expression made Arthur wonder if he knew about Antonio and Francis. If he knew that it was a waste of his time kissing Liz. If he knew whether or not everything would turn out alright in the end.

Then Mikkel and Antonio came bounding out, and Mikkel’s hair was wet and falling in every direction and he threw an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Thank you for dripping on me,” Arthur remarked, and Antonio cried about how _Densen’s dribbling!_ all the way to the cafeteria. And they actually ate together, Gilbert and Antonio and Francis and Mikkel and Arthur. At the same table. Talking and laughing and showing each other stupid shit on their phones.

_This is real. This is happening. This is my life._

Mikkel started holding his hand under the table.

_Actually, this is the afterlife. Our apologies for any confusion._

* * *

And, yes, they went to see _Thor: Ragnarok._

Mikkel seemed surprised that Mrs. Kirkland said yes, and then doubly surprised that she didn’t want to go with them. (Arthur was shocked by neither. He was fairly certain Mikkel could have convinced his mother to let them try skydiving if he really wanted to. Also, she preferred books.) Antonio and Gilbert came to pick them up, and they all sat in the middle of the theater together, eating their little brown paper bags of popcorn, Antonio hounding Gilbert for his candy because he’d eaten all of his in one bite. At the beginning Arthur was paranoid Mikkel would try to put his arm around his shoulders, but eventually the movie was too entertaining to think about anything else.

“So do you like Marvel movies now?” Mikkel asked on their way out. He was grinning ear-to-ear.

“I like _that_ one,” Arthur replied. “But I didn’t see the other two _Thor_ movies—”

“Good,” Gilbert said, and Antonio snorted.

Mikkel opened Arthur’s door for him. “This was the best one. The others are . . . okay. But this one was the most fun.”

“He lost his _eye_.” Antonio bugged his own eyes out at Gilbert. “Fucking brutal.”

“Brutal was the wolf part,” Gilbert said. “That was awesome.”

“Fenris was badass,” Mikkel said, which might have been the first time Arthur had heard him say that word. Mikkel refrained from swearing in English, for some reason. Arthur had heard him muttering things in Danish, though; he assumed profanity was involved.

“I have a question,” Arthur said.

“About Loki?”

“About Odin?”

“About Dr. Strange?”

“No,” Arthur said. “If they’re Norse gods, why do they have British accents?”

All three of them went silent.

“Did anyone else not even notice?” Antonio asked.

“I’m not gonna say a word,” Gilbert said. Six words, in fact.

“Well.” Mikkel smirked at Arthur. “They must have wanted them to sound sexy.”

Arthur stared.

Gilbert and Antonio laughed.

They were going to have words.

* * *

“You shouldn’t say the things you say. In public.”

“What things?” Mikkel was finally turning the calendar over. He was worse than Dylan at remembering to keep things updated. He glanced over his shoulder instead of turning around. “Are you mad?”

“No.” Arthur crossed his ankles. He was on the bed. The door was closed. He was like contraband in his own house. “Like flirty things. Even if they’re just jokes. People might not think they are. I don’t want anyone asking questions. I don’t want to have to lie.”

“But it is lying,” Mikkel said, facing him now. He was wearing a button-up, a flannel. It made Arthur want to swallow him whole.

“A lie of omission isn’t the same thing as a lie.” Francis understood that very well, but Arthur wasn’t going to bring that up. He and Mikkel hadn’t discussed what they’d seen at the party other than to agree _it’s none of our business._ Which it wasn’t, even if they were a friend group now. More or less. In training. “Leaving something out isn’t as bad as saying something that isn’t true.”

Mikkel’s mouth slanted. “I don’t know.”

Arthur wanted to say _well, I do_ but it sounded too petulant.

“They are your friends,” Mikkel said. Arthur knew he was being overly careful; he lost his contractions when he did that. “Why do you think they won’t like it?”

“I don’t think they won’t like it.” Arthur shook his head. “I don’t _know_ if they’ll like it or not. I don’t know them well enough yet. You don’t have to tell someone every deep dark secret the moment you meet them, you know.”

Mikkel smirked, sitting on the bed beside Arthur with a leg folded under him. “Am I a dark secret?”

“Yes.” Arthur took his hand so he could look at that instead of his face. “You’re my biggest secret. The most important one. I don’t want to give you to everybody.”

Mikkel’s other hand crept up while he wasn’t paying attention. His thumb rested on Arthur’s chin, gently tipping his head up. “I don’t want to share you, either,” he said. His gaze drifted from Arthur’s eyes down to his lips.

Arthur only let the kiss last a moment before he pulled back, ducking his head down. Shyness was less embarrassing.

Mikkel sought his attention, concerned. “Am I going too fast?”

“Yes. No.” Arthur closed his eyes. _Idiot._ Here he had a Viking asking for his consent and he was giving responses like that. But both answers were true. Arthur _wanted_ to be kissed, but at the same time . . .

Mikkel was only ever patient with Arthur. His thumb smoothed a little circle over the sensitive skin where Arthur’s own thumb met his hand. If he focused on that little touch, everything else was fluff. But he couldn’t do that, because he was greedy. He wanted more. But at the _same time . . ._

“I just don’t know what I’m doing,” Arthur confessed, at last. _As if that isn’t obvious._

Mikkel tilted his head to one side. “Have you ever kissed before?”

 _“No.”_ This was the secondary issue. Mikkel had probably had sex before, with multiple people, and Arthur was completely inept at anything that involved the use of a body, let alone two bodies being mashed together. He hadn’t even played with dolls as a kid; he didn’t know how limbs interacted when people were that close. Sure, he’d dabbled in erotica and watched naughty videos, but women were always banging on (ha) about how you couldn’t use porn as a teacher. So what was he _supposed_ to use?

“It’s easy.” Mikkel smiled. “Just close your eyes and . . . sort of open your mouth, but not too much. Don’t drool.”

“You can’t just say _don’t drool_ ,” Arthur snapped, furious at the heat in his cheeks. “That’s unhelpful. And I don’t know how much is too much. That’s the whole point of this.”

“I can’t give you measurements,” Mikkel said through laughter. “I don’t know. Nothing bad will happen if you mess up.”

“I don’t even know how to mess up.” Even just talking about it was starting to be too much.

Mikkel leaned closer so fast Arthur had no time to retreat; their noses bumped together, and Mikkel actually giggled. “There you go. I messed up first. Now there’s no pressure.”

Arthur shook his head, but they were close enough that his eyes wanted to be closed, so he let his eyelids droop and kept watching Mikkel’s mouth. It was smiling, but parted slightly. Arthur tried to do that without feeling too weird and mouth-breathy. Then they were kissing. And kissing again. And again, and then still . . .

They pulled back to breathe this time. Arthur checked Mikkel’s lips for drool and saw none. He couldn’t tell if his own were slobbery or not. Mostly everything just felt warm. He hoped he wasn’t blushing enough for Mikkel to feel the heat off his face. Like holding your hands up to a fire.

“See.” Mikkel smiled lazily. “Was that scary?”

“Yes.” But that didn’t mean it wasn’t good. And he still didn’t really know what to do with his tongue, but this was still progress he could be relieved about. The fact that he’d actually closed his eyes in front of someone was a big leap. He almost told Mikkel that, but then thought it made him sound a little too pathetic. Or manic.

Perhaps Mikkel sensed that he needed a break from intimacy, because he shuffled backward to lean against the wall, posture as horrendous as ever. “So you had never done it before. Have you ever seen a kiss?”

“Of course I have. People kiss in movies all the time, but it’s not exactly a step-by-step diagram.”

“No, no. In real life.” Mikkel observed him curiously. “A gay kiss.”

Arthur opened his mouth to say no, recalled the Kiss That Could Not Be Named at the party, and _then_ remembered: “Yeah, I’ve seen Alfred and Matthew kiss. Once. But it was just. Half a second. Matthew’s too shy.”

That was last year, when they were in grade nine. He’d been closer to them then, back when they were even more terrified of existing than Arthur was. He felt sort of parental, drawing them out of their shells when they wandered nervously into their first GSA meeting. Now Alfred was confident enough to lead the meetings and Matthew never left his side, as far as Arthur could tell. It must have been nice, having a side you could cling to if you liked. Arthur used to be jealous. Now, it occurred to him, he didn’t have to be.

Mikkel nodded, thoughtful. Arthur stared at him. “Have _you_?”

“Sure. I get to see it all the time.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“My friends,” Mikkel said. “Berwald and Tino. Didn’t I tell you, I’m a third wheel?”

“You told me the third wheel part. You neglected to mention that they’re gay.”

Mikkel laughed at the look on his face. “I didn’t? Huh. Well, they are. I didn’t know it was a big deal.”

 _It’s not._ “It is,” Arthur said. “I thought you were way straighter than you actually are.”

“Well,” Mikkel allowed, once he’d laughed again, “you were my first kiss with a boy.”

Arthur stared, speechless. He didn’t know what to say to that. He barely knew what to feel. Honored? Shocked? Less embarrassed, now that he knew Mikkel’s expectations were more aligned with his own? _Actually._

Arthur smacked Mikkel’s arm.

“Ow!” he cried, delighted. “Why?”

“You could have said that _before_ ,” Arthur informed him through his teeth.

“No big deal, right?” Mikkel smirked. “Just a lie of omission, _ja_?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

Mikkel let him win their little wrestling match. Arthur celebrated his victory by resting his ear over Mikkel’s heart. He listened to it race, then gradually slow again. _Thump-thump-thump-thump._ Mikkel placed his hand on the small of Arthur’s back.

It probably wasn’t helping his tough guy image, but Arthur liked this better than kissing.

* * *

And he was actually going for an image. Sort of. Not _going_ for it, really. And not tough guy. Maybe bad boy. Or maybe just edgy emo. He didn’t know what the hell it was.

Halloween was the problem. Everything started from that Halloween party. It was like the epicenter of his life story. ( _The turning point,_ said his mum in his head, which was a terrible place for her to be.) He’d chosen the vampire costume mostly because you couldn’t go wrong with it; nobody looked twice at a vampire on Halloween. Classic. And it let him wear black. And it let him wear eyeliner.

And now he wanted to wear it again.

He’d always been opposed to cosmetics in general. His mother never wore them. She’d always just said _I don’t need to_ when he asked her why. He’d grown up seeing it as a lie, as something vapid women did because they didn’t like their own faces, because they had no personality to attract men with so they had to put on fake eyelashes and lip color and draw on their own facial structure.

But now, for the first time, he questioned that.

Because he wasn’t particularly fond of his face. (He wasn’t going to wear that concealer all the time. He looked like a ghost with that on. And Mikkel liked his freckles, for some reason.) The part he’d always liked most about it were his eyes. Nobody had ugly eyes. And his were green. Every main character in the world had green eyes. Every preteen girl online _pretended_ to have green eyes. He liked them.

And he liked them with eyeliner around them even better.

He’d been putting it on at night for a week, then scrubbing it off again before he went to bed. Sometimes he didn’t get it all; he had black gunk in the corners of his eyes when he woke up. He’d look at himself in the mirror, remembering what he’d seen the night before. Then he hid the pencil in the back of the cabinet behind the mirror and left so Mikkel could have his turn in the bathroom.

This morning, he drew lines along the bottoms of his eyes and smudged them with his fingers.

Then he paused. Was he supposed to put it on top, too? Did it look stupid without that? He didn’t really think so . . . He wasn’t about to draw on those cat-eye lines on the edge like girls did. He should have done research on this. He tried to picture men who wore eyeliner. Somewhere between Adam Lambert and Billie Joe Armstrong.

 _So, yes,_ he thought. _Edgy emo trash. Right, then._

He walked out before he could change his mind.

Mikkel was waiting in the hall. He smiled automatically when he saw Arthur—then he really looked at him. “Oh. You look good.”

A tricky mix of happiness and suspicion. “Are you saying that to make me feel better?”

“No, I’m saying it because I think it.”

“Do you think I look better with this on than without?”

“No.” Mikkel shook his head, smiling with a bit of exasperation in his eyes. “You always look good. Now you look different good.”

Arthur looked back at him. Mikkel’s smile was impenetrable.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”

Mikkel kissed his forehead and went into the bathroom.

Arthur didn’t think he could be edgy with this much happiness fluttering in his stomach.

* * *

Mrs. Kirkland was always on the way out by the time Arthur got down to the kitchen, but she paused when she saw him. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Arthur didn’t look up from pouring milk over his cereal. “Mm-hmm.”

She didn’t say anything for so long that he felt adrenaline prickling through him. They couldn’t stay in this time loop forever; the carton would be out of milk and then he’d look even sillier than he already did. So he handed it to Mikkel and looked over at her.

She didn’t look angry or upset. She just looked curious.

“Do you like wearing it?” she asked.

Mikkel snuck him an encouraging glance.

“Yeah,” Arthur said. He didn’t intend to sound so tentative, but better that than snarky.

She looked over at Mikkel as if to check if he was wearing eyeliner too, then just nodded at them both. “Alright. Don’t miss the bus. I’ll see you both third period. Until then.” A wave over her shoulder and she was gone.

 _It’s fine._ Arthur put his spoon into his cereal but didn’t eat any of it. _This is fine._

“That was good,” Mikkel said, sitting beside him at the table. “See, your mum is nice. I told you. She’s cool.”

_Yes, she is cool. She is nice. It was good._

Mikkel snuck his spoon over Arthur’s bowl; he delivered a rainbow marshmallow onto his Shreddies.

Arthur smiled faintly. Mikkel grinned.

It was a lot easier to believe Mikkel’s voice than his own. Especially when it said nice things.

* * *

No one noticed on the bus, but nobody ever noticed anything on the bus.

No one noticed in the halls—or, if they did, they didn’t act like it.

No one noticed in class, except maybe the math teacher who did a double take when he raised his hand.

Only at lunchtime did anyone stare. It was Gilbert. His brow furrowed. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Arthur had never gotten a stronger dad vibe from a teenager. Gilbert should’ve been reading the newspaper with a pipe in his mouth, the way he asked that question. With slippers on. “Yeah. I am.”

Francis looked up from his phone. Antonio looked up from his nachos.

“It suits you,” Francis said, smiling.

“You look like a serial killer,” Antonio said, smirking.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at Gilbert.

Gilbert scrutinized him a moment longer, then nodded. “It looks good on you. You’ve never looked badass before.”

“I still don’t,” Arthur said, the safe zone of self-deprecation.

“You do,” Mikkel protested.

“Stone cold killer,” Antonio agreed. “Shit, that reminds me, look at this.”

He bowed his head to find some clip for them on his phone. Arthur’s eyeliner was never mentioned again, except in passing on the rare occasion the word _guyliner_ found its way into conversation. It was accepted as a part of him. An experiment proven successful.

Arthur wore it every day. His pillowcase was streaked with black. He pretended it was dreams, ideas, leaving their footprints across his pillow as they wound their way out of his mind. Then his mum told him he had to put more effort into cleaning it off, or it would bother his eyes. He assumed he was invincible. His eyes were red-rimmed by the last week of November.

He smudged the eyeliner more, to cover it up. Sometimes he wished he could keep going, rubbing his fingers back and forth until his whole face was an obscure mask, like a half-erased mistake.

* * *

He and Francis had been texting a fair bit—much less than he and Mikkel did at night, but that was to be expected—so he knew it was only a matter of time before a message came asking Arthur to go somewhere. He was pleasantly surprised to find Francis not asking Arthur along for plans he’d made with other people, but for a one-on-one outing to the mall. Not even Mikkel was invited. _It’s been too long since we had time to ourselves,_ he said. Arthur was even more surprised to find that he actually wanted to say yes.

He wanted to talk to Mikkel first. Not to ask for permission, exactly. Just to sort of . . . test the waters. He knew neither of them were immune to jealousy, and he knew it was special circumstances since Mikkel didn’t have his own friends he could fall back on here and Arthur didn’t either, technically. They were both outsiders, starting with each other and branching out from there. It was difficult to separate the roots of a plant. They clung.

_I will not be clingy. I will not be clingy._

“I’m going to the mall with Francis,” Arthur said, first thing Saturday morning.

Mikkel was still in bed, in his pajamas. (He wore these loose muscle shirts to bed, he might as well have had nothing on at all.) Mrs. Kirkland was downstairs, banging and clanging her way around the kitchen. Weekends were a time for reflection and baking. She’d never been able to do them at the same time.

“Oh,” Mikkel said. “Okay.”

They looked at each other. Waiting.

“. . . Are you leaving now?” Mikkel asked.

“Yes, Francis will get here anytime. I just want—I just _don’t_ want you to be jealous, or anything.” Arthur shrugged, a big one that had his hands coming up and slapping back down against his sides. “Now you’ll probably get upset that I thought you’d get jealous. I—”

“Arthur.” Mikkel smiled softly. “Breathe.”

Arthur breathed.

“I’m not jealous,” he said. “Or upset. We don’t have to go everywhere together.”

And damned if he didn’t feel a little bit heartbroken, hearing that. _Oh, woe is me,_ Arthur thought to himself. _Get a life. Stop being a twelve-year-old girl._ Probably that was sexist, as if he didn’t have enough qualities working against him. _Why do you want to date this, Mikkel? Do you even know?_

“No,” Arthur agreed. “Right. Yes. Alright. Did you have any plans for today?”

His phone buzzed. Francis was here.

“Just working on art, probably,” Mikkel replied.

“That’s good. You could text me some pictures of it, if you wanted, I mean, if you felt like it would be good to show someone, or if you needed an opinion . . .”

His phone buzzed again.

“Go to the mall,” Mikkel said, amused. “Text me if you need me.”

 _I always need you._ The thought did come into his head, but not his mouth, because although it might have been true in the earliest days of their still young relationship, it was no longer the case. And that, Arthur knew, was a good thing.

He hurried over to give Mikkel the world’s messiest tip-of-nose kiss and ran downstairs before he could break up with him for it.

Francis didn’t have his own car; he drove his mother’s when she wasn’t using it. It was an old-fashioned thing, with the interior done in odd fleshy leather that Arthur had to physically prevent himself from commenting on every time he saw it. Francis smiled when Arthur got into the passenger seat. Arthur smiled back, even though it felt a little weird on his face.

“Should I give you gas money?” Arthur asked, once Francis had performed the super power of reversing out of the driveway. (He did it with much more care than Antonio, who glanced backward once and only once before he began.) Mrs. Kirkland had reminded him to offer on the way out, so Arthur was doing it now, before he forgot.

“No, you don’t have to,” Francis said. “I invited you. My treat, mon ami.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, then.” He glanced out the side window; someone was jogging along the sidewalk in skintight black clothes. Arthur was still wearing his fall jacket, but it was a labor of love. It was really too cold for it now, and it was a hassle tugging it on over his sweaters. Francis was in a fashionable white parka with golden fluff along the edge of the hood. Arthur wondered if he’d gotten it from the women’s section of a store or if he’d ordered it online. “The coat looks warm.”

“It is,” Francis said. “Do you find it cold? You can turn the heat up.”

“No, it’s fine.”

They weren’t even out of town yet.

This was the first time he and Francis had spent any amount of time _alone_ with each other in years. _A decade,_ Arthur realized. Madness. Madness that he could even say that. Where had the time gone?

“I’m sorry,” Francis said suddenly. “I don’t know why I am being like this. I feel like I don’t know you, but I do.”

“Sort of,” Arthur allowed. “We don’t really know each other _that_ well.”

Francis’s mouth thinned a little, but he didn’t look away from the road.

“I don’t know what books you like to read,” Arthur pointed out.

“I don’t really read books,” Francis admitted. “Just for school.”

Arthur spared a thought for the two blond boys in the elementary school library, working their way through a seemingly endless series of fantastical books, one always ahead of the other because the school only had one copy of each and delighting in watching the other work his way through. _But that can’t happen! His mother can’t be evil! They can’t die! Tell me what happens, Arthur!_ And once, just once: _Tell me a better ending. Make it up yourself._

He had all of those books, now, on his shelf. And the super editions. When the people left, the books stayed.

“What do you do, then?” Arthur asked, less in a sociable way and more in the way of a curious scientist learning about an alien species.

“In my free time?” Francis’s mouth quirked a bit. Self-deprecation didn’t go with his outfit at all. “Art, I guess. My parents turned the basement into a studio for me for my birthday two years ago. I go down there, when I get to be alone.”

Arthur paused a moment, to enjoy the idea of parents who were that generous (it wasn’t that his mum wasn’t, just that they’d have to divide the basement four ways because _share with your brothers!_ ). Then he said, “Can I ask you a question that’ll probably piss you off?”

Francis laughed. “Those are my favorite questions.”

“You say that now,” Arthur said. “Why do you hang out with all those people if you hate doing it? Do you actually care about them?”

Francis hummed, thoughtful. “Because I don’t want to hurt their feelings. They are good to have around. It isn’t like I feel awful after I talk to them. They’re not bad people.”

“But that’s not really normal,” Arthur told him. “Or maybe I’m just a freak, I don’t know. I don’t have friends for every class, like you do. Life would probably be easier that way, but—I mean, it’d be exhausting, wouldn’t it? It’s one thing to only talk to them in that class, but then they’ll be texting you afterward, wanting to _do_ things together . . .”

Francis glanced at him with a weary, _tell me about it_ smile.

“Then why? Why do you do that to yourself? Why did you start it at all?”

He wanted to ask _And how was it so easy for you to make so many friends?_ but he didn’t want to seem pathetic.

Francis was silent for a long time. The car stopped at an intersection. They watched an unlabeled transport truck drive by.

“Because,” Francis replied eventually, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Arthur looked at him. He couldn’t imagine Francis by himself, and that was by design. He never was alone. He had someone by his side no matter where he went. That was something Arthur had envied for years, but now he saw the difference: as much as Arthur _longed_ for it, Francis was dependent. Arthur’s skin had hardened to callous from so much time alone. What would Francis do, if he suddenly had no one? Would he shrink into a shell, like Arthur had?

He could imagine Mikkel alone. Mikkel could exist anywhere. Arthur had stumbled across him in the hall a couple times, and he always looked like he had such purpose. Sometimes Arthur wondered if he was just a side character in Mikkel’s story. Maybe that was why his life was empty for so long. He just hadn’t been written in yet.

“I don’t, either,” Arthur said, because Francis made it sound like a big revelation.

“That’s so weird to me,” Francis said, shaking his head. “I spent so long thinking you hated me and that you liked to be by yourself. I was always jealous of you for that. You made it look so easy, to be alone. Nothing bothers you.”

“Everything bothers me!”

They both laughed at his adamance, and Francis added, “Well, you don’t _act_ like it does.”

Arthur Kirkland, the unflappable hermit. _Imagine that._

“Are you happier now?” Francis asked. “Now that you have us? And Mikkel?”

They always said it like that, _and Mikkel_ , like he was an afterthought, an add-on. _And he is,_ Arthur told himself. Mikkel was temporary. It wasn’t going to last. It couldn’t. But Mikkel didn’t care, and that meant Arthur couldn’t either. It was ridiculous, Mikkel’s optimism and determination to make things pleasant. He smiled at strangers like it was no big deal. He struck up conversations in line at the grocery store. He was never _weird._ Weird from him became charming. And . . .

That was the problem, why Arthur couldn’t ever come to any decision about how to handle the Mikkel problem. He could never think about just one part of him. They all bled into each other, blended like a rainbow. He was the opposite of black-and-white.

It wasn’t his friends and Mikkel. It was Mikkel, and his friends. He’d come first. Even though this was doomed, history would remember: the Dane came first.

“I am,” Arthur replied. “I’m happier now.”

Francis smiled. “I’m glad.”

* * *

The mall was a fifty minute drive. The Kirklands made the trek once a month, back when Mr. Kirkland was the one driving and all the boys were still living at home. They had a big van, then; Arthur only vaguely remembered it, kicking and slapping Dylan in the way back, Scott and Liam arguing over radio stations in the middle seats, and Mum and someone called Dad in the front, so far away they were unknowable. The fish fountain, the Chinese buffet, Arthur running ahead because the bookstore was at the very end of the mall. _Arthur! Don’t go off by yourself! Scott, go with him. Mum, seriously? Arthur!_

It was different now. The Chinese restaurant had moved locations twice. The fish fountain was gone entirely. Mrs. Kirkland only drove to the mall once a year, for Christmas shopping. She said it had bad memories attached to it. _It’s just not fun anymore._ Arthur had never said anything to that. He knew she meant it wasn’t fun without all her boys going with her. He knew there was no way he could be enough. But it was still another thorn working its way into his heart.

There was no melancholy over Francis’s head. He lead Arthur around the mall with a mission in mind. They went into all the stores Arthur never bothered even glancing at; some of them didn’t even have a male section. “Clothes are not for boys or girls,” Francis said when he caught Arthur’s head swiveling. “Clothes are for people.”

To that end, Francis bought himself two pairs of perfectly flattering jeans and, under his guidance, Arthur bought another pair of skinny jeans—not black, for the first time, but blue. Dark blue, granted, but this still felt like crossing a boundary. There was a girl modelling them on the poster, but nothing gendered on the tag. “They look good on you,” Francis said. “What else matters?”

Francis bought two shirts and a cardigan, but Arthur didn’t like anything enough to touch it; he was worried if his fingers brushed anything, Francis would hold it up to him and coerce him into a fitting room. Everything here was too . . . soft. Fall colors, pastels, brands that meant nothing to him. He did see a sort of frayed-on-purpose denim jacket that he wondered about, but he didn’t know what he’d wear it with. He wondered where Mikkel had gotten his flannel shirts. Arthur had a sneaking suspicion he’d be mistaken for a butch lesbian if he wore something like that. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with being a butch lesbian—he just wanted to look like himself.

He didn’t know what that meant, was the problem.

Mostly he wore clothes that everyone knew were ugly. Like his fuzzy, weirdly stretched sweaters. And his huge, hand-me-down, faded band shirts he’d scrounged from Liam’s closet. And the massive poofy parka he’d be wearing when the snow started to fall. If he wore clothes that weren’t even trying to look good, then there was no pressure. Then there was no chance of being laughed at for trying to look good, and failing.

But now that he was Arthur Who Wore Eyeliner, it felt like the clothes had to change to match. He was putting effort in to one thing, shouldn’t the rest follow suit? And he had a boyfriend now. (God.) Shouldn’t he look nice for him, on some level?

“You don’t like anything here?” Francis finally asked.

“I dunno,” Arthur said. “It’s not really my style.”

“What is your style?”

Arthur’s gaze wandered across the hall. He’d only ever been in that store with Liam, once, when he was looking for those weird plug things for his earlobes. ( _They’re called tapers._ ) Mrs. Kirkland had not been impressed. ( _I don’t care what you’re called. You’re fifteen years old. You are not doing anything permanent to your body. Mum, seriously?_ ) Now Liam had drifted away from punkish stuff and into some weird hipster/hippie grey area. He’d even had a Buddhist girlfriend at one point. Mrs. Kirkland didn’t say anything about that.

Arthur wasn’t going to do anything permanent to his body. He just wanted to maybe try on a shirt that sort of showed what his body . . . looked like.

He wasn’t going to ask Francis how to seduce his boyfriend. He had enough dignity for that, at least.

Into the store they went. No overhead lights, just random spotlights and purple lamps and neon signs that said things your grandmother would frown at. Francis looked extremely out of place in here, but he peered around curiously, only mildly disturbed by the sight of one of the staff and her face full of piercings.

“What were you looking for?” Francis asked. “What type of thing?”

Arthur couldn’t begin to put it into words. Everything was balled up in his mouth.

Francis looked at him, then at some of the shirts on the nearest rack. “More feminine things?” he guessed. He held up a black shirt with lace sleeves. Arthur imagined it against his wrist, tickling Mikkel’s when they held hands. Francis smiled. “Like me, but the dark side.”

Arthur turned away so Francis wouldn’t see his smile, then reconsidered and showed it. “Yeah.”

And from there, it was effortless. Arthur had no idea how Francis could find so many things in so little time. It was like he manifested half of the stuff, and most of it Arthur liked. He didn’t have a huge amount of money to spend, but he had enough for three shirts, which Francis said was _a good haul, considering._ Arthur didn’t ask what he was supposed to consider. He just enjoyed the excitement of _new._

Lunch was not Chinese, but Japanese. Mrs. Kirkland had always been the biggest fan of sushi in the family; thankfully her boys tended to eat anything—aside from Dylan, the resident vegetarian—so generally there were no disputes in choosing the place. Arthur just nodded to the first place Francis suggested. No complaints from him; he hadn’t had sushi in ages. It was another thing that _wasn’t fun anymore._

“Don’t judge me,” Arthur said, eating with a fork.

“No judgement,” Francis said, wielding chopsticks with grace. Of course. “Are you . . .”

Arthur glanced up when he trailed off, then followed Francis’s gaze to a young guy standing at the counter. He had one of those paint-by-numbers pretty girls beside him—blond hair, blue eyes, pink lips, so on—but Arthur knew Francis wasn’t looking at her. They both watched the guy walk over and sit at a little table. He had checkerboard Vans on.

Francis slid his eyes back to Arthur, smirking playfully. “Is he your type?”

Arthur busied himself with his California roll. “He has stubble on his neck.”

“I like a guy to be a little shaggy.” Francis watched him, amused. “What is your type, then?”

“I dunno.” _Tall._ “I’m not picky.”

“Yes, you are.”

They shared a little laugh at that. Arthur basked briefly in the glow of being known.

“This is strange,” Arthur said, because it was. “This feels like breaking rules.”

“You just bought clothes from the _bad kids_ store,” Francis told him. “You should love breaking rules.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying it.” Arthur really looked at him for the first time since they were in the car. “So . . . are you . . . bi?”

Francis’s smile grew fond now. “I’ve used that label before. I don’t really like them. Labels.” He shrugged, taking a dainty sip of carbonated water. _Fizzy,_ his mum would call it. He used to love asking her different words for things. _What’s this, Mum? What’s this?_ Now he pretty much knew them all. Another thing she couldn’t teach him anymore. “I used to say I was genderfluid, too. Now, I don’t know. I stopped thinking about it, I guess.”

There was something Arthur could be envious of, the opportunity to _not_ think about something. “I didn’t know that. But you do seem like . . .” He could feel this quickly getting away from him. “You’re androgynous like that. And it looks good on you. I mean, anything would, but.” He drank his tea, to save him. Green tea. He still hadn’t convinced Mikkel tea was better than coffee. They both agreed, however, that hot chocolate was too sweet for a sane human to drink. (They wouldn’t be bringing that up anywhere near Alfred and Matthew.) “It suits you.”

“Thank you.” Francis tucked some hair behind his ear. “Do you try to be androgynous, too?”

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe. Lately. I guess. Sort of. Maybe.”

Francis nodded slowly. “It suits you,” he echoed. “Do you think you would wear other kinds of makeup?”

“No. I mean, I don’t really know anything about makeup. But I’m pretty sure, no.”

“Okay. But still. I want to get you a better pencil.” Francis tilted his head, studying Arthur’s eyes. “I am worried for your eyelids, mon ami.”

Arthur neglected to mention he’d been using a cheap Halloween costume pencil. “Okay.”

“Maybe some different shades, too.”

Arthur’s turn for a slow nod. He didn’t know eyeliner existed that wasn’t black, and he really couldn’t see himself wearing it.

“Now,” Francis said, when they had nothing but drinks left. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Arthur replied, only now realizing their ratio was severely off. He hoped he hadn’t come off as a desperate child. _Ask me anything. Just keep talking to me._

Francis leaned his elbows on the table, locked his fingers, and rested his chin on top. The pose of the gossip. “How long have you known you liked boys?”

Arthur couldn’t remember ever specifically coming out to Francis, but he didn’t need to. If everyone assumed, Francis _knew._ And it was only fair, since Arthur had shoved his nose into one of Francis’s secrets. Anyway, the fact that he was gay wasn’t a big deal. Mikkel was the thing that mattered. If Francis and Antonio were staying secret, why should Arthur and Mikkel be public? Secret was safe.

“Since puberty, I guess. I dunno. I didn’t call myself gay ’til grade nine. I guess I was hoping it’d wear off.”

Francis chuckled. “I was the same way back then.”

Arthur stifled a smile, warmed. “When did you know you were different?”

“Oh, I think I always knew.” He chuckled again at Arthur’s dubious look. “Okay, not always. When I was very young I didn’t think of any of this, of course. It was—well.” He actually ducked his chin, sheepish. “This might piss you off.”

 _Piss_ was a bizarre word on Francis’s lips. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

“I knew the first time I went to your house. Scott was my first crush.”

 _“What?”_ Arthur stared, clutching the edge of the table while Francis covered a giggle with his hand. “Are you serious?”

“I am serious.” He was actually blushing now. “I’m sorry. I have lived with this too long.”

“And now you’re making me live with it.” Arthur made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Scott! He’s the worst one! And he was old when we were kids, why couldn’t you have a crush on Dylan?”

“He wasn’t _that_ old,” Francis protested. “He was thirteen when we were seven.”

“I don’t like that you know that.”

“Relax, it’s over with now. He’s straight, anyway.” Francis waved it away with an elegant hand. “And now I know what I want.”

Arthur felt the vibe drop pensively. He remembered the look on Francis’s face at the party, the fear in his voice—and the resignation, too. Weariness. _Please, Toni._ “What’ll happen when we graduate?”

“Hopefully?” Francis gave a wistful smile. “We dorm together at the X. We get good jobs in a city. We live happily ever after.”

Nothing about Antonio’s family, or Francis’s for that matter. Arthur wondered if Francis genuinely thought he and Antonio would be high school sweethearts. How often did they last? Young love was always talked about in bittersweet tones for a reason. It was cursed. Yet here they were, stuck in it like dinosaurs in a bubbling tar pit.

“I’ll cross my fingers for you,” Arthur offered.

Francis smiled. It should have been sad, but it was just grateful. “Thank you.”

* * *

Arthur found Mikkel in the living room, hunched over his sketchbook on the couch with a rainbow of colored pencils spread out on either side of him.

“Your poor spine,” Arthur remarked, coming up behind him. His mum’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so he didn’t have to worry about anyone coming up behind _him._

Mikkel tipped his head back to smile at him upside-down. “Hi. You never texted. Did you have fun?”

“I had fun.” Arthur wanted to kiss him but was daunted by the weird angle, so he came round to the other side of the couch. Mikkel tossed his sketchbook onto the table and dumped the lot of the pencils on top of it. Arthur sat down beside him, dropping his bags on the floor. Mikkel’s arm came around him, and Arthur leaned into him. “Did you miss me?”

“Oh, yes.” Mikkel nodded grimly. “I cried.”

“Poor you.”

“I really did.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Mikkel was pouting at him, so Arthur kissed him. Mikkel kissed him back. Then, because he was worried he’d have crab breath and because he really didn’t want his mother to come home to him sucking on an exchange student’s tongue, Arthur pulled back and bent forward to dig through the bags. He pushed the bundle of fabric into Mikkel’s hands.

“What is this?” Mikkel looked at Arthur. “You shouldn’t have got me anything. It isn’t even Christmas.”

“It doesn’t have to be Christmas. Don’t be stupid.” That came out a lot meaner than Arthur wanted, so he flapped a hand. “Just, whatever. Have it. I got it because we’re dating and I like you. Don’t make it weird.”

Mikkel’s smile was soft, but it brightened into a grin when he held up the shirt. It was Thor from the latest movie, complete with eyepatch and short hair. “Thank you,” Mikkel said, letting the shirt fall onto his lap so he could hug Arthur. “I’ll do something for you to make it up.”

“You don’t have to make anything up.” This wasn’t very convincing, mumbled into his shoulder. Mikkel’s arms turned Arthur into mush with increasing efficiency.

“I want to.” Mikkel leaned back so he could look into Arthur’s eyes. “Because we’re dating and I like you.” He snuck a kiss to Arthur’s nose, infinitely less clumsy than Arthur’s previous attempt. “Don’t make it weird.”

When Mrs. Kirkland came home, they couldn’t look each other in the eye without grinning.


	5. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, the power was out >.<

The problem was Mikkel hadn’t realized that Arthur could get cuter. No, the problem was: he _did_ get cuter.

First of all, the coat. Arthur’s winter coat didn’t even try to be slimming. In fact, it purposefully puffed itself up in the cold. The roundness of it drew attention to the roundness of Arthur’s face; he still hadn’t grown out of his baby cheeks. When they were red from the cold, and the tip of his nose? It was enough to kill a man.

And underneath the big coat, he was starting to wear different clothes. Some he bought, some were donated by Francis, but all accentuated Arthur’s body in ways his old clothes never had. He always looked tender, but now he also looked . . . pretty.

Mikkel wanted so badly to touch him. It drove him crazy, how close they always were without being able to do anything about it. He understood why Arthur didn’t want to let people know; his own parents didn’t know he had a boyfriend, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. (They’d been fine about it with Tino and Berwald, but it was always different inside your family. Just the way it was.) The last thing he wanted was to be some kind of homewrecker who made Arthur come out to his family, start a war, and then hop back over to Denmark unscathed. He wanted to support Arthur. That was the point of this, always. But now the point was also that Arthur turned him on like crazy, and he seriously needed to do something about it soon.

Their study sessions generally included kissing practise now, at least. Arthur had loosened up significantly since their first time. The confidence came from different places, not just Mikkel anymore; Arthur felt better about himself with the new clothes, the eyeliner, time spent with Francis, Antonio, Gilbert. Mikkel didn’t feel jealous about that anymore. He liked spending time with them too, especially Gilbert. (He’d given Mikkel a test drive on his bike last weekend, around the school bus loop. Exciting!) Arthur was getting better at not wasting time on apologizing for silly things. He still ducked his head away after every kiss—as if Mikkel didn’t know he was blushing—but he didn’t hide his smiles now.

“You have dimples,” Mikkel said one day, surprised.

“I don’t,” Arthur said, frowning on purpose.

“You do.” Mikkel put his hands under Arthur’s chin and gently pressed his thumbs where Arthur’s dimples had poked. “They’re tiny.”

Arthur held Mikkel’s wrists but didn’t pull his hands away, and here was Mikkel’s favorite part about him and the part he’d probably never be able to tell him. The dimples weren’t the only tiny thing about Arthur. (That sounded flattering.) All of him was just—small. Everything was proportioned properly; it was just like he’d been sized down a couple times. Mikkel loved holding his hand. _Small._ He loved standing behind him in line on pizza day. _Small._ He had to resist the urge to rest his chin on top of Arthur’s head.

He couldn’t think of anything creepier than saying _I like how little you are._ Didn’t that make him sound like a pedophile? Maybe people over six feet were allowed to say stuff like that. But what if they weren’t? It seemed risky.

He kept his compliments away from size, just to be safe. But he still grinned like an idiot when he got Arthur a book from the top shelf in the library. ( _You do know I am capable of reaching that. I know, I’m just being helpful. Well. Thanks. You’re welcome!_ )

It was the slowest Mikkel had ever gone with a relationship. He had his first girlfriend when he was eleven, and that was nothing more than holding hands and wet-lipped kisses. That lasted about a month. The next one was in grade seven, which entailed being dragged to every school dance so he could be forced to awkwardly slow dance and then kiss behind the wheelchair ramp while they waited for her dad to come pick them up. That one actually went into grade eight, but the summer had changed them too much so they split. Then there was the girl he took to prom last year; they had made out, tongue and all, in the backseat of her car. She’d even let him touch her boobs, which was nice, although she didn’t take her bra off. That was a big difference: there were no outward curves on Arthur’s body whatsoever. He was a concave creature. It made snuggling easy, but at the same time, Mikkel sometimes felt that if he wrapped his arms around him tight enough he’d shatter him.

That was another thing he probably would never say out loud. Bad boys might be hot, but he was pretty sure murderers were out of vogue.

* * *

Snowball fights were strictly forbidden, but they were allowed to pick up snow if they were making snowmen, so that’s what Mikkel and Arthur did when the gym teacher gave them free time after snowshoeing. That in itself had been endearing; Arthur’s feet were too small for the big ones and too big for the small ones, so he was put into the big ones and they constantly came loose and fell off. Mikkel retightened them every time while Arthur swore under his foggy breath about this being a waste of everyone’s time. ( _The snow isn’t even deep enough to need snowshoes!_ ) They couldn’t walk side-by-side because they were on a narrow trail that wound into the woods behind the school, but Arthur glanced over his shoulder to give multiple eye-rolls and head-shakes along with the teacher’s lecture about returning to nature and taking the time to go outside, away from screens, and just breathe the air.

“The school supplies us with laptops,” Arthur was ranting presently, “and yet everyone constantly tells us to limit our screentime. Which do you want? Make up your minds.”

“Mmm,” Mikkel agreed, helping him lift the midsection he’d finished rolling. It wasn’t very big—the snow wasn’t even deep enough to need snowshoes, after all—but it was better than some other attempts Mikkel could see from here.

“And it’s hardly returning to nature, with big metal monstrosities stuck to the bottoms of our feet. We can’t return to nature. _We_ didn’t come from it to begin with.” Arthur bent over to start on the head. Mikkel enjoyed the view. “And for God’s sake, this isn’t nature, this is a wasteland. I’ll enjoy nature when it comes back again, in spring.”

Mikkel smiled and Arthur suddenly glanced up. “I’m not insulting you, am I? Is this what Denmark is like?”

He had to laugh at that. “Covered in snow all the time, you mean? No. You have more snow here.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Really? That’s interesting. You always think of places like that as cold all the time.”

“All the water, around.” Mikkel lifted his hands to steady the head as Arthur set it down on the torso. “Keeps it . . .” He struggled to find the word in English. He knew it, started with M . . .

“Moderate?” Arthur supplied.

“Moderate,” Mikkel agreed, smiling.

“That makes sense.” Arthur wandered over to the treeline. Mikkel followed. “So you don’t get snow days, then?”

“That would be a big deal. Nobody would leave their houses, if the snow was that bad.”

“What’s that bad?”

Mikkel considered, then held his fingers three inches apart.

Arthur laughed. “Yes, that does look terrifying.” Mikkel could tell, finally, when Arthur was being sarcastic. He was really good at sarcasm. “How about these?”

Mikkel appraised the pair of sticks he held up. “They look good.”

They each put an arm in at the same time, down at the snowman’s sides. “I always feel sorry for the ones made with their arms held out,” Arthur remarked as they collected some bits of gravel by the bus loop. “That must be exhausting.”

Mikkel couldn’t get over him.

* * *

Mikkel and Arthur volunteered to put the snowshoes away for the teacher while everyone else left for lunch. Arthur put his hands up Mikkel’s shirt. Mikkel shivered.

“Are they too cold?” Arthur asked, starting to pull back.

“No,” Mikkel lied, and held them over his heart.

* * *

The last day of school before the break was classless, and only half a day. Christmas music was blared in the cafeteria and _fun activities_ (Christmas bingo, guess-that-song, so on) were had by those who had bothered to show up. Mikkel spotted Alfred running around with Matthew, both in Santa hats, showering people with mini candy canes. Francis had been out sick most of the week with the flu, so it was only Mikkel, Arthur, Gilbert, and Antonio at their usual table. They had bingo cards in front of them, but they weren’t paying any attention. They’d been shushed twice by a quintet of student council girls a table over, so they were leant together, talking quietly. Antonio had the most problem with that.

“I don’t want to go with them,” he said, for the tenth time in as many minutes. “They do this to me every year. I don’t have any friends in Spain. It’s all people they know, not me. I barely even know my grandparents. They think I’m a delinquent.”

“You are,” Arthur remarked. “You have an earring.”

“Dios mío.” Antonio rolled his eyes, then scowled. “I hate it.”

“You should take Fran with you,” Gilbert said. “He could afford the ticket. He’d go.”

Antonio shook his head. “I’ve already asked, trust me. It’s a _family_ vacation.”

They all gave him sympathetic frowns. Antonio had the worst parents out of any of them, but still, on a general level: family vacations usually meant a whole lot of stress and arguments. Especially holiday ones. Mikkel had actually never gone on a big trip with his parents; when they left the country, he stayed home with Berwald. It wasn’t as strange as it sounded; they’d been next-door neighbors all their lives, and their parents had been friends for years before that. Berwald was more of a brother than a friend.

Something twinged in Mikkel’s chest. Arthur glanced at him, concerned. He put on a smile, but he could tell Arthur didn’t believe him.

Because of course, Antonio wasn’t the only one who was supposed to be going home over Christmas break. Before Mikkel left, he’d made his parents promise they’d let him come home, no matter what. He’d never left home like this before; he hadn’t known how bad the homesickness might be. It wasn’t bad, as it turned out, but as Christmas drew near . . . They’d been messaging him regularly now, asking for specifics on timing. They’d already bought the ticket, months ago. _Just in case._ That had been the light at the end of the tunnel, for the first few weeks. How many times had he said to Tino _can’t wait to see you in December_?

The buses never showed up on time for half days, so they stood around waiting outside. Gilbert and Antonio were gone already. They’d exchanged chocolate bars and Antonio had surprised all four of them by giving hugs. Arthur’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything as Antonio put his arms around Mikkel and slapped his back. Mikkel returned the embrace and tried to ignore the faint smell of alcohol clinging to him. “Be safe,” he advised. _Be happy._

Antonio smiled wryly. “Oh, you know me. Don’t worry. I’ll get a tan.”

“You’re already tan,” Arthur and Gilbert said in unison.

“I’ll bring back souvenirs.” Antonio waved at them as he headed for the parking lot. “Adios!”

Gilbert waved, then turned to them. “Well. See you at New Year’s.”

The party would be at the Beilschmidt house, another long-standing tradition Arthur (and Mikkel, of course) had only learned about recently. Arthur nodded to him, and Mikkel gave Gilbert’s shoulder a punch of farewell. Gilbert returned it, smirking. “I’m gonna give you some protein powder for Christmas. You gotta bulk up.”

“And I’ll get you a salad,” Mikkel told him.

Gilbert was already gone, but his laugh wafted back to them. Mikkel liked that one.

The sun was shining, but the cold still pressed on their faces. Arthur glanced over at a bus—some kid was rapping on the window, but not for his attention—then back to Mikkel. “So. You’ll probably be going home. Right?”

Here it was.

“I planned on it,” Mikkel replied. “My parents got the ticket.”

“Then you should go,” Arthur said quickly. “Obviously. Don’t let them waste their money.”

“I was thinking maybe I would,” Mikkel found himself saying. Blurting, really.

Arthur stared at him. “Would what?”

“Make them waste their money.”

_“No.”_

“I could pay them back for it. I have a summer job already lined up, it wouldn’t take that long to make it back.”

“No! Don’t stay here for me. Don’t waste thousands of dollars for me.” Arthur stared up at him, stricken. “I’ll—I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll be very upset.”

“Don’t be upset,” Mikkel advised. “And it’s only one thousands of dollars.” Plus a little extra, but that was beside the point. “And I wouldn’t be doing it for you. It’s for me. Look at our friends. Toni has to go to Spain. Francis has to do things around town with his family. Gilbert . . . well, Gil is okay, but still. I want to be as happy as I can for Christmas.” He moved so he was standing directly in front of Arthur, as close as he was allowed, close enough that Arthur couldn’t see anything else. “And that means I stay with you.”

Arthur stared at him, and Mikkel watched the tears brighten his eyes, then fade away as he fought against them. His voice had a rasp in it. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.” Mikkel smiled.

“Really just the worst,” Arthur added. “Person. To ever. Exist.”

“It’s true.” Oh, he wanted to take those little gloved hands. “Do you think you can forgive me?”

Before Arthur could respond, their bus pulled up. In the stream of kids, Arthur grabbed Mikkel’s fingers. They hurried to their seat and hunched over, curled together, still holding hands. Arthur sometimes put his hands between his thighs to warm them up, and for a split second—and a heart attack—Mikkel thought he was about to do that with both their hands. But Arthur pulled Mikkel’s hands to him, cradling them, and kissed the back of each one. Mikkel could only watch, awed.

“Your hands are my favorite,” he said, without looking him in the eye. “Also your smile. ’S good.”

“All of you is my favorite,” Mikkel said. “You’re the perfect size. You fit.” All of this sounded better in his head. “And your smile is good, too. I wish I got to see it more.”

Arthur scrunched up his nose in a desperate attempt not to smile, but his lips were twitching. He looked down at their hands, still joined in his lap. Mikkel kissed the top of his head, the little spot where his hair changed direction. _Coconut._

“You can stay,” Arthur said. “I’ll forgive you.”

“Maybe I’ll take you with me when I do go,” Mikkel said. “I’ll put you in my suitcase—”

“No.” Arthur’s hand came up to cover his mouth. “Don’t say things like that. Just . . .” He shifted, resting his head on Mikkel’s shoulder. “Be here.”

Mikkel kissed Arthur’s palm. There was nowhere else he wanted to be.

* * *

His parents were not thrilled. Mikkel told them over Skype, and once they’d gotten through thirty minutes of _we paid good money_ and _we only get so much time with you as it is_ and _this is the sort of thing you’ll look back on_ , they finally agreed that it was his decision, even if he wasn’t technically a legal adult until next year.

“I’ll be charging you interest,” his father told him. “Keep that in mind.”

“I know,” Mikkel replied. He was still high with relief. He would happily give them all the money he earned next summer, if that was what it took to stay here. He only got so much time with his parents, but that was an eternity compared to what he’d been allotted with Arthur. These two weeks without the distraction of school—besides studying for midterms, but who cared about that—were precious treasures.

“Hmph,” his father said, which meant the discussion was at its end. “You must be happy there, then.”

“I am. I made lots of friends. We’ll be having a New Year’s party.”

“No drinking,” his mother said, louder than necessary. Mikkel wondered if the Kirklands could hear him speaking Danish. His parents spoke English, but he was glad for the break from it. Not having to think about his words at all was like a sigh of relief.

“I won’t be drinking. There won’t be alcohol there at all, as far as I know. None of us are old enough.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Who is the friend?”

“Gilbert Beilschmidt,” Mikkel replied, knowing what she would say.

“German!” she said, of course. “And you say there’ll be no drinking. Ha.”

“He’s second generation, it’ll be fine. We’re all very responsible.”

They both gave him dubious looks. He chuckled. He didn’t really laugh with his parents anymore. They had a much different sense of humor.

“Will there be girls at the party?” his father asked, suddenly suspicious.

“No. No girls. Just me, Arthur, Francis, and Gilbert.”

“I’m sure you’re staying for some girl,” his father said, without heat. “That’s usually the way things go. Especially at your age.”

“Is it a girl, Mick?” his mother asked, eyes widening a little. “Don’t break her heart. Long distance relationships never last. Especially at your age.”

It was these times, when they joined forces into this two-headed beast, that Mikkel disliked his parents. “It’s not a girl,” he said firmly, but not too firm that they would think he was flustered. “The dating pool is too small in this school for that. All the girls are taken or sworn off men.”

This was true. There was an alarming amount of lesbians. (Francis had almost choked on his soup when Mikkel mentioned that at the table. _I didn’t mean it in a bad way. No, I know, it was just the way you said it, mon ami._ )

“Whatever you say,” his father said, dubious.

“Just please be responsible,” his mother said. She smiled. She had lipstick on her teeth. “Be safe. Be happy.”

“I will,” he said. “Thank you, again. God jul.”

“God jul,” they repeated. His mother blew him a kiss. Then, after the obligatory fumbling with the computer, they disappeared from his screen.

Mikkel sat back on the bed, breathing out slowly. Here he was. Staying with Arthur. No going home. No rice pudding and pepper cookies. No tugging on one of Tino’s itchy knitted sweaters that were always just a little too small. No hugging Berwald during the only time of year his stoic friend would permit an embrace for more than ten seconds. Just Arthur.

 _He’s worth it,_ Mikkel thought.

_Don’t break her heart._

Mikkel’s mouth twisted. He knew Arthur wouldn’t eavesdrop on purpose, but he was glad they hadn’t been speaking English. No one needed to hear that. Especially not Arthur.

Berwald and Tino were more understanding, of course. Tino and Berwald were both already in sweaters from last year. Mikkel wasn’t certain, but he was pretty sure Berwald’s voice had gotten lower since he heard him last. Which was really saying something, considering the rumbly bass he already had.

“But why?” Tino asked, more curious than anything. “Do they love you more than us?” He gasped. “Do _you_ love _them_ more than us?”

 _A little. But not like that._ It didn’t matter how it was; he couldn’t tell them. But then again . . . why couldn’t he tell them? Arthur didn’t want anyone to know who could tell his mother or treat him differently for it, but he’d never met Tino and Berwald. They only knew he existed by name, and vice versa. So what harm was there in being honest to his oldest friends?

“Sort of,” Mikkel replied slowly. “I . . . have a boyfriend.”

Tino covered his mouth with his hands. Berwald’s eyebrows actually rose.

“Tell us everything! How long has this been? You never told us!” Tino cried. “Tell us!”

“It’s the one I’m staying with.” He would refrain from saying Arthur’s name. He’d tell him about this, probably, but later. “He’s adorable.”

“Mikkel Densen!” Tino squealed. “You fell in love and didn’t tell us!”

Mikkel opened his mouth, but all he could do was smile.

“He _is_ in love! Ber!” Tino threw his arms around Berwald’s neck, unable to contain himself.

Berwald was staring in something like confusion. “I thought he wasn’t nice to you.”

“He wasn’t, at first.” Mikkel’s updates on Arthur had been sparse. He felt weird, talking about this person he was spending time with instead of them. But now it was something more than that. It wasn’t just the latest. Though it was terrifying to admit in words, with everything against them, this could be the last. “He’s nice to me now, mostly. He’s great.”

“I want to hug you so much,” Tino said. “And I want to meet him! Can we do that? Is he home?”

He could very well be on the other side of the wall, listening. “No. I mean, yes, he is home, but you can’t meet him yet. He’s shy. He wouldn’t like it. You’d think he was mean.”

Tino pouted. “Oh. That’s too bad. Maybe someday?”

“Maybe someday,” Mikkel agreed. Then he smiled. “So, are you still gonna carol without me?”

“Yes,” Tino replied stoutly, patting Berwald’s chest. “Ber can sing loud enough to make up for you.”

Berwald snuck a rueful glance at Tino, and Mikkel laughed. Volume, yes, Berwald had that. Note variety, not so much.

“Good,” Mikkel said, leaning back into his pillows. Home wasn’t his parents’ voices. Home was Tino’s giggle and warmth in Berwald’s icy eyes. Longing tugged on the strings of his heart, and he felt it, but he didn’t mourn it. “Sing loud enough that I hear you across the ocean.”

* * *

Mrs. Kirkland didn’t mind that Mikkel was staying here for Christmas. “It’s just I don’t know where we’ll put you,” she said.

It took Mikkel a moment to realize what she meant. “Oh. Well, I don’t mind the couch, or . . .”

“He could sleep in my room,” Arthur offered. “We still have an air mattress, don’t we?”

Mikkel stared at him, too surprised to even smirk. Arthur didn’t look at him. He’d break if he did.

“Well, yes, we do, but wouldn’t the couch be more comfortable? You wouldn’t be as cramped—”

“No, I don’t mind,” Mikkel said. “If Arthur doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Arthur echoed.

Mrs. Kirkland looked between them both and gave half a smile. “Well, alright, then. You’ll have to pump up the mattress yourselves. My manual labor doesn’t extend beyond putting sheets on the couch.”

Mikkel grinned. “Deal.”

Which was how they came to be sitting in Arthur’s room, hand-pumping an air mattress and talking about everything _but_ how excited and freaked out they both were to be sharing a room for two weeks, when they heard the front door open and three loud voices say, _“HONEY WE’RE HOME!”_

Arthur put his face in his hands. “Oh, God. It begins.”

Mikkel stilled. The mattress hissed. “Do you want me to—”

“No, don’t stop pumping, the thing is—it’s broken, you have to just keep going ’til it’s done or you’ll lose the air.” Arthur stood up, took a steadying breath, and crossed the room. He paused at the doorway. “If I’m not back within five minutes, call 911.”

Mikkel blinked. “I thought you were serious for a second.”

“I am.” Arthur closed the door behind him.

Mikkel expected more shouting, but he heard nothing but muffled conversation as he continued to pump up the mattress. This did give him time, however, to take in Arthur’s room. He’d gotten glimpses, but this was the first time he’d crossed the threshold. It was pretty much what he’d expected, just in concrete terms. Shelves upon shelves full of books, some of them double-stacked. Posters for film adaptations of said books. A small whiteboard hanging on his closet door featuring a checklist of his homework, the dates of his exams, and several multi-colored, cryptic notes. _Re merms. Farrier. A$k. Dmark?_

Mikkel’s gaze lingered on the last one. He felt himself smile, faintly.

Five minutes passed and Arthur was back. His cheeks were red, and he pointed to the mattress immediately. “Is that done?”

Mikkel was sitting on it. He nodded.

Arthur collapsed onto it, completely limp, face-down. Eyes closed. A groan of defeat.

“So,” Mikkel said eventually, “how did it go?”

“They’re still my brothers. So they’re still assholes.” He rolled onto his back and put on a deeper voice. “ _Are you wearing eyeliner, runt? You look like prepubescent Gerard Way._ ”

“Prepu—”

“Before puberty.”

“Oh. Did they actually say that?”

“Scott did, yeah. He’s the worst of them. I could put up with Dylan and Liam, but not that one.” Arthur crossed his ankles in Mikkel’s lap, which was an exciting development. “So I’ll be spending the entire break in my room, basically. You’re welcome to not see daylight with me.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Mikkel wrapped his hands around Arthur’s ankles. _Small._ “Are they serious? Or are they teasing?”

“My brothers? I don’t know. Mostly teasing, I guess.” Arthur shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mikkel had seen that before. “It does, if it upsets you.”

“No, it doesn’t. They can say whatever they want. So long as we don’t bruise or bleed, we can get away with murder.”

Mikkel doubted that; Mrs. Kirkland seemed strong enough to control four boys. She handled a classroom well enough. But then again, he’d never seen any bad behavior in English class. She was quiet, calm, and so were her students. If she was tasked with calming down four crazy boys . . . maybe she would let the rules get a little lax. What was that she’d said? _Sometimes I forget he’s a teenager._ Maybe she thought Arthur’s skin was a lot thicker than it really was . . .

“I don’t like that,” Mikkel told him.

Arthur shrugged again. He shifted so he was leant back against his own bed, head resting on his mattress. He watched Mikkel with heavy lidded eyes. “This is selfish. But I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I—”

Erratic knocking on the door interrupted. “Out you come, Arthur! We’re decorating the tree! No exemptions!”

“Yeah, alright!” Arthur called back, in a completely different voice than he’d ever used with Mikkel or the guys at school. Footsteps drew down the hall, then thumped down the stairs. Arthur sighed and put his feet on the floor, sitting up.

“Was that Scott?” Mikkel asked, sad to let go of him.

“No, that was Liam.” Arthur put on an unfunny smile. “Don’t worry. They’ll introduce themselves in a moment. I suggest bracing yourself.”

Mikkel didn’t, but when he stepped into the living room and saw three tall (though not quite as tall as him) red-headed young men all appraising him with darker versions of Arthur’s green eyes, he wondered if perhaps he should have heeded the warning.

The one with the darkest auburn hair came over first. He grabbed Mikkel’s hand in his own meaty paw and said, “Scott. You’re the exchange student, right? Not just one of Art’s friends?” He leaned a little to grin at Arthur. “Oh, wait.”

“Scott,” Mrs. Kirkland called from the kitchen. Not scolding, really. Just acknowledging that he’d said a bad thing and implying something should be done about it.

Arthur ignored all of it, heading over to the tree and picking up a green ball. He didn’t put it on yet, though, just waited. Mikkel noticed Dylan and Liam had ornaments in their hands, as well.

“Mikkel,” he said, shaking Scott’s hand firmly. “And he does have friends. I am one of them.”

Scott started to pull away, but Mikkel held onto his hand, looking into his eyes. Not glaring. Just telling. _Don’t mess with me._

Scott raised a thick eyebrow and tugged his hand away, just on the edge of a jerk. “Yeah? Good. About time he found somebody to put up with him.”

Arthur was watching Mikkel, but he didn’t look at him yet, just offered a hand to the next biggest one. He didn’t get up from the arm of the couch, just shook his hand and said, “Name’s Liam. You settled in alright?”

Mikkel nodded. “Settled in.” If he recalled correctly, Scott was a business major, Liam was doing a bachelor of science, and Dylan was in vet school. Liam didn’t really look like the type to care about science, unless it was maybe a meth lab. His shirt wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding the tattoo creeping up his neck.

 _Don’t judge,_ he reminded himself. _At least he’s not insulting anybody._

Dylan did get up, smiling kindly at Mikkel. “Hi. I’m Dylan, but you probably knew. Process of elimination.” His hand almost felt like Arthur’s, warm and soft but just a bit bigger and more sure of itself. “I might as well just get this out of the way. Do you have any pets?”

“Jesus,” Scott said. “Get a hotel room first.”

“Let the man sit down,” Liam said, but he was laughing.

Mikkel smiled at Dylan. “My parents used to have a cat, but it died years ago. No pets since then.”

Dylan gave a sympathetic frown. “Oh, that’s too bad. I’m sorry.”

“See, this is what happens when you lead with that,” Scott said. “Now it’s awkward.”

“It’s not awkward,” Mikkel said, without even thinking about it.

Scott raised an eyebrow again. _You want this to get serious?_

Mikkel smiled. _Maybe._

“Alright.” Mrs. Kirkland came in from the kitchen with a round, red tray of divided sections. Each one held chocolates, pretzels, candies, nibbles of all sorts. (Mikkel tried not to feel too sad that there were no peppernuts.) Mrs. Kirkland set the tray down on the coffee table. “Sustenance has been supplied. Now, have we decided who goes first?”

“It was Scott last time,” Liam said. “That means it’s my turn.”

“I thought we decided we’d start working backward,” Dylan said.

“No, because then Arthur would get to go almost two years in a row.”

“Yeah, but with Scott in between—”

“Why do you care, anyway? It wouldn’t be your turn if we did that.”

“No, but _next_ year it will be.”

“Who cares? Just toss a coin, for God’s sake.”

“How can you toss a coin for three bloody people?”

_Ting-ting-ting-ting._

Everyone fell silent and turned to look at Arthur, who was standing on the loveseat and clanging a glass icicle against the ball in his hand. “Let Mikkel go first. Then Liam, then Dylan, then Scott, then me,” he said. “Then you can all fight about who goes first next year.”

They exchanged looks, muttered a bit, then finally Dylan and Liam shrugged and Scott nodded. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Go on, then.”

“And get down from the couch, dear,” Mrs. Kirkland said.

Arthur hopped down and offered the icicle to Mikkel. “Unless you want a different one . . . ?”

Mikkel glanced toward the open boxes of ornaments in the corner, then smiled and accepted the icicle. “No, this one’s perfect.” He faced the tree. “So . . . anywhere?”

“Anywhere,” Arthur agreed. “Don’t ask for suggestions, we’ll be here all day.”

So Mikkel stepped forward and hung his icicle near the middle. Liam’s star went toward the top. Dylan hung his little pewter cat (it had a Santa hat on) near the bottom, so it could rest on a lower branch (it was unreasonably heavy). Scott stretched up and placed his bauble even higher than Liam’s. And finally Arthur hung the green ball right next to the icicle.

“You can’t put them that close together,” Scott said. “That looks daft.”

“He can put it wherever he likes,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “It’s Christmas.”

“It’s Christmas,” Arthur repeated—in the _so there_ way only younger siblings could truly pull off—and turned on his heel to stand beside Mikkel. He glanced up at him. Mikkel grinned.

From there, it was a free-for-all. Arthur and Mikkel hung back with Mrs. Kirkland while the other three fought over the best placement of each one, but no one touched the first ornaments. Scott had already put up the lights, so when they were pleased with what they’d done there was only a final piece. Scott and Mrs. Kirkland both left the room, the former holding a stepstool and the latter holding a woman with angel wings. Scott set the stool in front of the tree and Mrs. Kirkland climbed up to gently place the angel on top of the tree. Mikkel thought it was a bit weird for the poor lady to have a tree shoved up her skirt, but when Liam plugged in the tree and it all lit up, it didn’t look bad.

“I’m used to a star,” Mikkel whispered to Arthur. And tinsel, too. The tree looked a little naked, by his standards. And it wasn’t even a _real_ tree . . .

“Most people here do stars,” Arthur told him. “The angel is just from our grandmother. She gave it to us when she had to be in the hospital for Christmas.” He glanced toward his brothers, who were all chatting about school and making good progress through the nibbles tray, then lowered his voice even further. “She didn’t come home. So we put it up for her, I guess.”

Mikkel didn’t hear a lot of sadness in Arthur’s voice, but he didn’t want to press the topic. “That’s nice, the memory and everything.”

Arthur nodded, still looking toward the tree.

Mikkel realized, just then, he’d never asked Arthur about his father. He’d been waiting for it to come up on its own, and it never had. “Was that on your mother’s side, or . . . ?”

“Yeah, in England. I never met her.”

He stared long enough, trying to think of a way to ask it, that it must have become clear what was on his mind. Arthur gave a pensive sort of smile and said, “My other grandmother is still alive. She’s on the west coast, or at least I assume she is. That’s where my father came from. And where he went back to.”

Mikkel realized he’d almost been hoping it to be another death. Those were excusable, at least. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shook his head. “No big deal. No one stays together.”

Mikkel opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur was on his feet. “Was there anything else?”

His brothers broke off into silence, watching him. Mrs. Kirkland looked up, too, her smile fading. “No, I just thought you might stay down here and talk to your brothers. Who you haven’t seen in months.”

Arthur glanced at them, then away. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Arthur,” she said, but he didn’t look back, just hurried up the stairs. They all heard his door close.

Scott turned to her, expression oddly serious. “Is this how he’s been?”

“No, he’s been better lately, I . . .” She trailed off suddenly, and four pairs of green eyes found Mikkel.

He stood up, clumsy in his haste. “I should go, uh. Study. Maybe.”

Mrs. Kirkland nodded. The brothers just watched him, waiting.

Mikkel started away, then stepped back to grab some chocolates before heading upstairs.

As soon as he opened the door, Arthur was on him. They’d never kissed with this much force before. It was almost an attack; Mikkel could barely focus enough to close the door, and then he almost tripped over the air mattress when he was trying to guide them both to the bed. Mikkel wondered how he could breathe.

Then Arthur pulled back and rested his forehead on Mikkel’s shoulder.

They sat in silence for a moment, panting.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said quietly.

Mikkel blinked. “Why?”

“For using you. I didn’t really want to kiss you. I mean, I did, I always do—” He shook his head and rolled over, burying it in his pillows. Muffled, he said, “I just didn’t want to think. But that was worse.”

Mikkel looked down at the chocolates melting in his palm. He ate one, even though it didn’t seem appropriate, because he didn’t want to make to make a mess. “Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“. . . Do you want a chocolate?”

Arthur hesitated, then rolled back to look over his shoulder. Mikkel held out his hand, and Arthur plucked one of the chocolates and ate it. Mikkel ate another. Arthur ate the last one. Mikkel licked the melted remnants off his palm.

“It would be hard to have brothers,” Mikkel finally said. “And so many of them. It would be hard to share everything.”

Arthur just looked at him, weary.

Mikkel wanted to say _you deserve more_ or _you’re strong_ or anything nice like that, but he knew he wasn’t good with words and that, even though Arthur was the one who loved to read and write, words meant nothing to him when spoken aloud. They only embarrassed him, and Mikkel could understand that; it _was_ embarrassing, shrinking down these feelings into something as blunt and unwieldy as words. It was to bastardize them. So he lay down beside Arthur and put an arm around his waist, loose so Arthur could move away if he wanted to.

Arthur rolled to face the wall as Mikkel neared, but he made no move to escape. Instead, he took Mikkel’s hand and pulled it closer, curled against his chest.

Mikkel shifted forward until they were spooning and he could feel the warmth of Arthur in so many maddening places. He’d never been this close to the back of him before; he didn’t know Arthur had freckles on the backs of his ears. They were fainter than the ones on his face, but they were there. Mikkel brushed his lips over them. He saw the fine hairs on Arthur’s neck, baby fluff, and kissed those too. Arthur made a soft sound and tugged Mikkel’s hand up so he could kiss each of his knuckles. Mikkel let his face dip forward into Arthur’s hair and sighed.

He wasn’t allowed, but he said it anyway, under his breath: “I love you.”

“Don’t.” Arthur stiffened, but his voice stayed light. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not.” He wanted to hold him tighter, but that seemed kind of . . . nonconsensual. “I’m saying how I feel.”

They’d had this conversation before, and he could almost _feel_ Arthur weakening against it, against himself. “You’ve known me for three months.”

“Almost four.”

“We’ve been—dating for less than two.” He still stumbled over the word. “You can’t say you love me. It’s too fast. It isn’t real.”

“It is real,” Mikkel insisted. “How long do you want me to wait?”

“I don’t know. Ten years.”

He had to laugh. Both their bodies shook with it. “That’s too long. I would love you long before that.”

_“Stop saying it.”_

He was close to tears, Mikkel could hear it in the tucked-in edges of his voice. He nuzzled into Arthur’s shoulder. His sweater smelled sweet like dryer sheets. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Why not?”

Arthur sighed, and his voice broke and fell low. “Because it’s not your fault I’m broken.”

Mikkel was quiet for a long moment, thinking about Arthur sitting by himself and the way he smiled and then looked down like he was apologizing for it and how he took up no space in his own house and how it was _no big deal_ and _is this how he’s been_ and _I don’t know why you’re doing this._ As if Arthur thought he wasn’t worth—anything.

“It’s not your fault either,” Mikkel told him. He sat up a little, so he could lean over and kiss Arthur’s cheek. Completely chaste, barely a touch of his lips to soft freckled skin. “I stayed for you. You’re my Christmas present. I love you.”

He watched the tears well in Arthur’s eyes. Then Arthur rolled over all-at-once and buried his face in Mikkel’s chest. Arms around arms, each other around each other. Touching. Yet the other parts of Mikkel were quiet for once, because this was what mattered: Arthur trembling as he cried, Mikkel smoothing his hand up and down his back, and finally the whimpered, whispered, broken truth.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Impossibly, the days blurred together.

They shouldn’t have. Mikkel didn’t want them to; he wanted to cherish them, because even though he had the majority of the year left with Arthur, the talk with his parents made him feel like he was going to be gone any day. _This is finite. This will end._ The words were at the back of his mind, constant reminders to make the most of it. He was _sleeping in Arthur’s room._ He had to make the most of this.

But the days were too similar and too full of activity. They were constantly piling into the car and going shopping for this or that, or going to community get-togethers, or volunteering. Mikkel felt a little weird helping old ladies make gift baskets in a church, but he could charm most anyone and so he became a favorite with all of them. Arthur was oddly liked there as well, though even he admitted he didn’t know why. ( _I’ve never even been to church. I stopped going to Sunday school when Dylan got too old._ )

His parents had sent him some money to spend for Christmas, even though his father was a little pissy about it. His mother wanted him to get something nice for Mrs. Kirkland, on behalf of all of them. He’d decided on a brooch—she wore them on her sweaters and vests and sweater vests, which was one reason he thought some of the guys in gym called her a MILF—but he didn’t know yet what he’d use the leftover money to get for Arthur. It wasn’t easy to get away from him in the stores without being obvious. Arthur was always giving him _knowing_ looks. Mikkel could never figure out how Arthur could know him so well, but see himself so wrong.

It snowed straight time for two days. When the sun finally came out, Mrs. Kirkland declared the boys were all too restless and kicked them all out. They had an odd number, but Mikkel grinned, undaunted. “We can take them.”

The snow was perfectly packy. It was meant to be.

Their snowball battle was long and hard-fought. More than once Mikkel and Arthur flanked the brothers around the sides of the house; they took cover behind the car, the shrubs, and the oak trees in the backyard. To Mikkel’s delight, Scott was the first to be struck in the face. _Alright, this is war!_ All civil conventions went out the window. Projectile warfare only continued for five more minutes before Scott ordered his troops to _charge!_ and Mikkel and Arthur’s only choice was to stand ground or flee. Arthur preferred the later, so Mikkel followed, and the five of them went on a merry chase until they were all too winded in the chill air to continue. Liam, Dylan, and Arthur stood doubled over, hands on their knees as they fought to regain their breath. Mikkel and Scott shared one rather respectful look, a brief moment of athletic kinship, before Scott took advantage of the distraction and tackled Arthur to the snow. It wasn’t long before all of them were on the ground, Mikkel wrestling Scott while Liam and Dylan made snow angels and Arthur watched.

They didn’t have to say anything. Mikkel and Scott grappled and shoved snow down each other’s coats and pinned each other again and again. It wasn’t like fighting Gilbert. Mikkel wasn’t even really fighting a person; he was fighting the things Scott had said to Arthur, in jest or not, and the things Arthur held in his head, the things that held him down. He had to stop himself from using fists.

“Enough,” Arthur said above them. “You’ve both proven your point. Call it a draw.”

They fell apart in the snow, breathless. They’d worn it down to the grass; their jeans were soaked through. Arthur shook his head at the display. “Mum’s going to be pleased with that.”

She wasn’t. But Mikkel saw the warmth in Arthur’s eyes, and that was enough to thaw him.

The nights were Mikkel’s favorite, the sweetest form of torture. They whispered to each other, and here was something even greater than the late-night texting: with the exhaustion of the day combined with the ease of words flowing into a dark room, Arthur said things he would never normally say. ( _Do your eyes ever hurt? Sometimes I look at your eyes and they’re so blue and I think they must hurt. They’re nice._ ) Almost every time Mikkel said _Good night, I love you_ Arthur repeated it back to him. It was like talking to another person, the true person who lived inside Arthur.

And, of course, there was the temptation. Oh, how he so wanted to climb up onto Arthur’s bed and kiss him in the dark. Or just hold him. Or just be close enough to feel him. But he didn’t move from the mattress on the floor. He hadn’t been invited onto Arthur’s bed; he would not cross a boundary. He would not ruin this for the illogical longings that plagued him. _You can wait_ , he thought to himself, over and over in the dark as Arthur softly snored above. _He isn’t ready._

It was entirely possible he would never be ready. It was entirely possible nothing physical would come of this in the time Mikkel had left. He accepted that. He had to. What kind of person would he be, if he didn’t? He hadn’t started this wanting to have sex. Arthur was a virgin, and for whatever reason he thought Mikkel wasn’t one.

He hadn’t enlightened him yet. He’d tell him when it became relevant. _If_ , he corrected himself.

They held hands when no one was looking. They said they loved each other in the dark. Mikkel had taken to kissing Arthur’s forehead every morning. _I feel like I’m in a dream,_ Arthur said to him one night. Mikkel knew exactly what he meant.

When Christmas Eve arrived, it was a slow surprise.

* * *

After they’d watched several movies (classics, apparently), Mrs. Kirkland asked if the boys would like to open their presents tonight rather than waiting for morning. “It’s different now that you’re not little children,” she said, almost bashful. “I’m sure you’ve seen the lack of big boxes under the tree.”

There were, in fact, only four holiday bags beneath the tree, plus the tiny box that held Mikkel’s brooch.

There was a certain pause from the Kirkland boys, a certain faint disappointment to realize they’d outgrown tearing open wrapping paper. But they recovered quickly. Scott nodded and grabbed the bags, distributing them importantly, while Liam said, “It’s better this way, really. Less wasted trees.”

While they browsed through their bounties of socks, underwear, and gift cards, Mrs. Kirkland pulled Mikkel aside. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know what would be best for you. I didn’t want to get you something you wouldn’t like, so . . .” She took two folded bills, a twenty and a ten, from her pocket and offered them. “This isn’t very festive, I know.”

Mikkel smiled. “Oh, you don’t have to give me anything. You keep that.”

“No, I want you to take it. You wanted to stay with us for Christmas, and I—” She stopped herself, cleared her throat lightly, and smiled more firmly. “Take it. If you won’t have it as a present, consider it my thanks.”

He didn’t have to ask what she was thanking him for. He just nodded and pocketed the money. “Thank you, Mrs. Kirkland. And thank you for having me.”

She reached up to pat his cheek, the very same fond gesture he’d seen her do to Scott. “It’s our pleasure, dear. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” he echoed, and was shocked to feel something like tears in his chest. It wasn’t like homesickness. It was just . . . it was the happiness Arthur felt when Mikkel told him how loved he was. It was the body’s shock to realize, somehow, miraculously, it was wanted and loved.

He would have hugged her, but the Kirklands were not the hugging type and she was already being called back into the living room anyway. She opened the brooch and a painted glass vase, then looked up with an appreciative smile. “Thank you, all, these are lovely. I’ll have to find somewhere to put the vase . . .”

Scott cuffed the back of Liam’s head. “I told you she already had enough vases.”

“It was Dylan! _You_ said—”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Boys,” Mrs. Kirkland said, loudly.

They looked at her, four wide-eyed puppies.

“I love the vase,” she said. “Thank you.”

Almost in unison, they all put their hands into their pockets and scuffed at the carpet with their feet. Even Arthur did it, to Mikkel’s amazement. Like this, they looked infinitely more pleased than they would have with simple smiles. It was a fierce magic.

It was a little anticlimactic after that, but Christmas without little kids generally was. The others left to get ready for bed—the house had two bathrooms but it still wasn’t enough—while Mikkel and Arthur lingered in the living room, lit only by the warm golden glow off the tree.

“I didn’t wrap your presents,” Arthur said. It burst from him, like he’d been meaning to say it long before this.

“You already got me my present,” Mikkel chided. He was wearing it, actually; he’d left all his graphic T-shirts at home, thinking they might be seen as nerdy here. How ironic _that_ worry was, in retrospect. “I didn’t wrap yours either.”

“Tsk.” Arthur smirked. “Aren’t we lazy.”

“The laziest,” Mikkel agreed.

They sat there looking at each other a moment, enjoying the curls of each other’s lips. They were only inches apart on the couch. Mikkel’s hand was _so_ close to Athur’s thigh . . .

Mikkel stood up. “Yours is in your room. Do you want it there, or here?”

Arthur blinked. “Doesn’t matter. Yours is in my room, too—”

“I’ll get it. You stay here.”

“. . . Okay.” Arthur sat back on the couch. “It’s in my closet, on the shelf. In a bag.” He looked a bit sheepish now. “From Walmart.”

“Okay.” Mikkel hurried upstairs, but none of the brothers were in the hall. (He was pretty sure he could hear Dylan singing _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ to his hamster.) Mikkel fetched the bag from the closet and gently took his own present from the bottom of his luggage. He hoped the black frame wouldn’t be tacky or too boring. He also hoped Arthur hadn’t spent too much money on him. Bringing money into things always made it weird. Especially if . . . _Don’t break her heart._

He wasn’t dying when the school year ended. They could have forever, if they wanted it enough.

Mikkel wanted it. He just didn’t know if Arthur did. And:

_Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t._

Mikkel came back into the living room. Arthur was sitting with his legs crossed, looking at the tree, hands folded neatly in his lap. When Mikkel stepped in, he turned only his head to look at him, and his eyes warmed before the rest of his face. His mouth was the last thing to move when he smiled. It transformed his face; it was like his freckles rearranged into constellations.

Mikkel offered the frame face-down. “Merry Christmas.”

Arthur took it gingerly and flipped it over. Mikkel watched him take in the drawing: a sunlit meadow, a forest glade, a unicorn grazing and her foal prancing at her side. Smaller details showed themselves shyly: little pixies hidden in the grass, a squirrel family watching from the tree branches, a dragon soaring over the mountain range in the far background. He’d done it in colored pencil, even though he was tempted several times throughout the process to scrap it and use paints instead. Arthur had always liked his pencil drawings the most.

“Thank you,” he finally said. His voice was thin. “This is incredible. You should’ve passed this in, they would’ve sold it for you at the gallery.”

Mikkel had put in a couple of his pieces to be sold at the public gallery in town; every art student had. He’d started work on this one long before that. Keeping it hidden from Arthur when he flipped through his sketchbook so regularly was the hardest part. “It’s not for sale. It’s for you.”

Arthur hugged the frame to his chest, smiling the sort of crumpled smile that meant he could have cried without much effort at all. “Thank you. It’s wonderful. I’m honored.”

Mikkel smiled back. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”

Arthur nodded to the bag on the couch beside him. “Open yours. I should have had you do yours first. Now it has to follow _this._ I would’ve made you something, but. I’m not creative like you.”

“You are,” Mikkel protested. “You could have written me a story that I couldn’t read.”

Arthur laughed, but it was hushed, rueful. His eyes were on Mikkel’s hands.

So Mikkel took his presents out of the bag. “We have a Thor pencil case, Thor pencils, Thor erasers, Thor pens, and—”

“They’re pencil covers,” Arthur said, indicating the odd rubber sleeves in the package. “Safe to chew.”

Mikkel looked at him.

“And it drives me mad that you never have pencils or anything because you don’t have a place to put them, so. Now you do. So if you ask me for a pencil now, I know you’re doing it just to be a nuisan—”

He broke off, because Mikkel was hugging him. Arthur no longer tensed up when Mikkel hugged him; he was used to his body now. If anything, he went more limp. That’s what he did now, melting into Mikkel’s touch with a sigh.

“Thank you,” Mikkel whispered.

Arthur nuzzled into his neck, a quick little thing; his breath tickled. “You’re welcome.”

Though it took a few months off his life to do it, Mikkel pulled back. “I have one more thing.”

He could see the anxiety darken Arthur’s eyes as he tried to add up the worth of everything, figuring out if he’d gotten Mikkel enough or not. “It’s not a big thing,” Mikkel told him, standing up. “Don’t worry.”

“I always worry.” Arthur watched him cross the room. “Especially when it’s you.”

Mikkel chuckled to himself. He went over to the doorway that connected the living room to the kitchen and, from his back pocket, withdrew a piece bit of sticky tack and a tiny decoration he’d spotted in a pharmacy of all places. He reached up and stuck it in place. When he lowered his arms again, Arthur was standing beside him, looking up at it.

“Mistletoe,” he said, eyes flicking to Mikkel. He was amused, in a _why am I not surprised_ way.

Mikkel smiled. “I had to.”

Arthur glanced into the kitchen, then back toward the stairs. “Someone could see . . .”

“Could they?” Mikkel edged closer. “How long did you plan on kissing me?”

Arthur closed the distance between them, tipping his head back. “I’m undecided.”

Mikkel’s hands were on his waist. “Maybe we could just stop when it feels right.”

“Hmm.” Arthur’s hands were on his shoulders. “What if it never does?”

Mikkel said nothing, because their lips were together.

This wasn’t the same as any of the kisses before. They’d had kisses that were shorter, and longer, and more heated, and more innocent. This wasn’t anything like that. This was something new entirely. There was no taking to this kiss. It was just giving. It was Arthur stretching up on his toes so Mikkel wouldn’t have to bend down so far and Mikkel’s hands cupping the small of his back so he would be steady and their lips tasting of mint and chocolate and Christmas and lights and _thank you._

When they finally parted, Arthur didn’t let Mikkel look at his face. He moved closer, resting his chin on Mikkel’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around him. Mikkel kissed his hair instead. They breathed. They breathed.

“Okay.” Arthur stepped back, abruptly businesslike. He reached up for the mistletoe, then did a little hop and snatched it down. Mikkel offered a hand, but Arthur put it into his own pocket. “No, I’ll hold on to it. It has too much power to trust you with it.”

It was difficult, but Mikkel managed to turn his laugh into a pout. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not at all.” Arthur left him there, but he stopped in the other doorway. “Come on. I don’t know if I can reach my ceiling.”

Mikkel didn’t even try to hide his grin.

* * *

When Mikkel didn’t have an alarm set, he tended to sleep in as long as he could until something woke him up. Normally, that was just the noises of people moving about the house, closing bathroom doors and clattering dishes in the kitchen. On Christmas morning, however, it was the sound of Arthur crying.

He didn’t recognize it at first. It was mostly gasping and shaky breaths. Trying-to-be-silent crying.

Mikkel sat up. Arthur was sitting on the floor, against the wall by the door. A piece of paper sat beside him, covered in the handwriting Mikkel recognized from graded English papers. Arthur had his knees up and his face buried in his arms.

Mikkel crawled over to him. He couldn’t read the paper—when his mind was racing like this, the page swirled like a galaxy—but he could sit beside Arthur and put his arms around him. Arthur didn’t hesitate; he moved right into his lap, pressing as close as he could, filling Mikkel’s night shirt with tears.

He waited until the stifled sobs had lessened, then smoothed down Arthur’s bedhead and asked softly, “What happened?”

Arthur snuffled, then sniffled, then wiped his face with the heels of his hands. “She saw us,” he said, and his voice shook but didn’t break. “Last night. Mum saw us.”

Mikkel remembered. Everything felt like a dream, but last night was the peak of it, that moment of absolute bliss right before you woke up.

“She put this under the door.” Arthur picked up the letter. “It . . . it says she’s happy if I’m happy, and if I want to talk to her about it I can, a-and she loves me.” His voice wavered and finally cracked, dropping to a whisper. Mikkel held him and Arthur rested his head on his shoulder, his trembling breaths resonating through Mikkel’s chest.

“See, I told you,” Mikkel said, as kindly as he could without sounding patronizing. “Your mum is cool.”

Now Arthur had laughter mixed with his tears, and he shook some more, but Mikkel didn’t let go.

Mrs. Kirkland smiled at him when they came down for breakfast. Arthur asked, in a voice still a little raspy, if he could talk to her. She nodded, and they left. Mikkel sat down at the crowded table and took a handful of bacon from the plate in the middle. He glanced at Dylan and said, “Sorry.”

Dylan shrugged, smiling ruefully over his cereal. “It’s okay. Live and let live.”

Liam shook his head, but fondly. Scott was too distracted to notice. Watching the doorway.

Mrs. Kirkland reappeared in it a short time later, followed by Arthur. His eyes were freshly reddened and his voice was thick, but he raised it to be heard. “I would like to make an announcement.”

Liam and Dylan twisted around to look. Mikkel smiled, encouraging.

Arthur looked at them all, then held up his hands in surrender. “I’m gay. Merry Christmas.”

Mikkel snuck a glance around the table. No one looked even slightly surprised. Dylan was smiling now. Liam had an eyebrow raised. Only Scott spoke: “What do you want, a medal?”

Arthur didn’t even dignify that with a response. He just waited a moment longer to be sure that there would be no explosions or gunfire, then nodded, satisfied. “Alright, good. I’ll be back down in a minute.”

He returned wearing eyeliner and, quite clearly, one of Mikkel’s sweaters. His brothers exchanged glances, but it was again only Scott who spoke. He nudged Arthur’s shoulder with his own and said, “Good for you, runt.”

For one perfect moment, all of them smiled.

Then Liam took the last of the bacon before Arthur could get some, and Mikkel let their arguing wash over him. They weren’t as bad as they seemed on the outside; they might have been insulting Arthur and cursing until Mrs. Kirkland hushed them, but they still put some of their food onto his plate. It reminded him—yes, of Berwald, who could never say what he meant but always showed his heart through action in the end. _Brothers,_ Mikkel thought. _How about that._

* * *

“So it’s official,” Gilbert said, raising his can of (root) beer. “Congrats. Oh, and fuck you for keeping it secret. The hell do you take me for?”

Mikkel grinned. They were in the Beilschmidt basement, which was all redone and ludicrously spacious. He and Arthur had a couch all to themselves, but now that meant he was sitting and Arthur was sitting beside him, one leg folded up beneath him and the other falling down so their ankles were hooked together. _And_ he was leaning into him, smirking at Gilbert to hide how sheepish he was.

“A filthy straight,” Arthur replied. “Bloodthirsty.”

“Vicious,” Mikkel agreed.

“They’re not wrong,” Francis put in as he came downstairs with a fresh batch of snacks. Gilbert and Mikkel had already gone through an entire bowl of nacho chips. Apparently there was no shortage of food in this house. Mikkel wondered how Gilbert and Ludwig and their father—who was a tall muscular beast Mikkel had only glimpsed on the way in—stayed so thin. It must have been the exercise equipment taking up the other half of the basement. Ludwig was over there right now, working out with headphones on. None of the couches were facing him, and Gilbert had waved it away when Arthur asked if he’d mind. _He works out mornings and nights, it’s part of his routine. He doesn’t care who’s down here when he does it._ Mikkel personally doubted that, remembering the hesitance of the shy freshman in the GSA meeting, but he hadn’t tried to look at Ludwig yet. He didn’t want to make him feel weird.

“Yeah, right. I _will_ be vicious,” Gilbert said, reaching for a Twizzler, “if I have to find out about another relationship through Facebook. First Liz, and now you bastards. Unbelievable.”

Arthur had, at Mikkel’s suggestion, set them to _in a relationship_ on Facebook. Now that Arthur’s family knew, there was no reason to keep it a secret, and Arthur’s paranoia could be lessened this way. ( _People won’t stare at us wondering if we’re together or not, if you do this._ ) Mikkel knew his parents would never see it. His father didn’t even have a profile, and his mother only used it to talk to her hooking group. (Rug hooking. They had a lot of rugs, most of them hanging on the walls.) So far, the announcement had been liked by Gilbert, Francis, Alfred, Matthew, Mrs. Kirkland, and Dylan.

( _I don’t use Facebook,_ Liam said. _I do,_ Scott said, _but I don’t like you that much._ But they’d all still wrapped Arthur up in a bear hug before they got into the taxi, and Arthur had still blown kisses even as Scott flipped him off from the rear window.)

“You already knew about Liz,” Francis said, joining Gilbert and reclining his section of the couch. “You said she texted you.”

“Yeah, I knew she was sick of me. I didn’t know she was already with Mozart again.” Gilbert tore the licorice in half. “Usually she waits a few days, at least. She probably had him going while she was still with me.”

They all sat in contemplative silence with this probability, punctuated by the clang of Ludwig’s reps in the background.

“Anyway,” Gilbert said, bringing them back up to levity again. “That leads into New Year’s Resolutions. Mine: no more dating Liz. Or anyone. I’m taking a break.”

Francis clapped, and Arthur and Mick joined too after a moment. Mikkel hadn’t realized Gilbert was emotionally involved in the goings-on with Liz, but maybe that was ignorant of him. Gilbert wasn’t a sleazy guy. He wasn’t going around sleeping with any other girls in the school. So Liz must have meant something to him. He sounded happy about his announced vacation, though, so maybe this would be an eye-opener.

Gilbert sipped some root beer until the applause faded, then raised his can to Francis. “Fran, go.”

Francis tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his knee. “I suppose . . . my resolution is to be more honest, and make more time for myself.”

He smiled at Arthur. Mikkel saw Arthur smile back, albeit smaller. Perhaps Mikkel had misjudged Francis. Maybe he didn’t surround himself with people because he thought he deserved it, but because he didn’t think he deserved to say no to them.

“Hallelujah,” Gilbert said. “You, Art?”

“What, you want _me_ to make more time for myself?” Arthur looked down at the can he’d barely drank from while Gilbert smirked indulgently at him. “I dunno. I . . . I guess my resolution is to write something.”

Francis smiled and Gilbert arched a pale eyebrow. “Like, a novel?”

“Probably not,” Arthur allowed, tentative like this was uncertain ground. He’d never discussed writing with someone other than Mikkel. “Not yet. Something smaller, first. A mini-novel.”

“A novelette,” Francis supplied.

“Yes, thank you, a novelette.”

Gilbert nodded along with all of this, making it obvious he didn’t know a novelette from a kitchenette, then finally looked over at Mikkel. “Last but not least, Mick.”

Mikkel blew a long breath between his lips. He’d never been good at these. Tino was the one who made lists and planned ahead; he had a whole five-year plan made up for himself and Berwald, from school to post-secondary to getting an apartment and a marriage. (Mikkel was going to be Berwald’s best man. _I’ll try not to get into any freak accidents in the meantime,_ he’d said, and Tino had hit him like a kitten batting at a ball of yarn.) But what did Mikkel want to achieve by the end of next year? What did he want to do differently? What could he not live without?

There was only one answer to that.

“My resolution is to be happy,” he said, looking at Arthur. “And to share my happy.”

Arthur looked back at him, and where there should have been a smile there was just regret, and sadness. He heard Arthur’s voice again, saying the most terrible thing: _This is only temporary. Don’t get attached. I’m broken._

Mikkel wasn’t cocky enough to think he could fix Arthur. He just wanted to help hold those fractures together, so maybe Arthur could heal them himself.

They were all waiting for Arthur to say something, and Mikkel could tell it was too much for him. So he pressed the shortest of pecks to Arthur’s lips and turned quickly to Gilbert. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make anyone jealous.”

Gilbert snorted. “Oh, yeah, big time.”

“Maybe that’s what it is,” Francis said, poking Gilbert’s knee with his toes. “Maybe you need something a little different . . .”

“Yeah?” Gilbert’s eyebrows spiked toward his hair. “Who are you suggesting?” He leaned over to Francis, making kissy noises, and Francis pushed him back with a hand on his chest. “Stop, before you spill root beer everywhere!”

“Then we’d be all sticky, you’d have to get out of those clothes . . .”

_“Gilbert.”_

They carried on until even Arthur was laughing so hard he turned red. The night faded into consequenceless silliness, all of them full of sugar and salt, talking about Christmas presents and worst dates and travelling anecdotes until they didn’t even notice it was almost midnight. They counted it down and all popped little cans of confetti when the year ticked its final second away.

“2018,” Mikkel said. “It sounds weird.”

“That’s because you’re Danish, dear,” Arthur told him, patting his shoulder.

The others laughed. _Dear._ Mikkel thought he might burst. He had confetti in his heart.

Francis gave Arthur and Mikkel both a kiss on the cheek before they left. Gilbert knocked knuckles with them. _See you at school. See you._ They were almost to the car when Ludwig appeared in the doorway, calling to them. He looked out of breath, even though he’d stopped working out hours ago. Mikkel had assumed he’d gone to bed.

“I was wondering,” Ludwig said, all-at-once, “if I could friend you? On Facebook?”

Arthur blinked. “Uh. Yeah. You don’t have to ask, that’s kind of what the request is for . . .”

“Oh. Yeah, I just . . . thought it might be . . .” Ludwig looked over at Mikkel, then at Arthur again. He nodded. “Okay. Thank you. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” they said in unison, watching him vanish back into the house.

* * *

That night, Arthur’s phone lit up the room. Mikkel watched the silhouette of him reach to pick it up. Mrs. Kirkland had allowed them to continue sharing the room, even though the cat was out of the bag, but she said it was _only for sleeping_ and Mikkel would be back in his own room after this, and henceforth the doors would be open when they were in there together. Arthur thought it was ridiculous that she cared, and Mikkel privately agreed. They weren’t going to do anything with her in the house. Mikkel didn’t trust himself to stay silent, and he trusted Arthur even less. And he didn’t even know what he was _doing_ . . .

“Mick,” Arthur whispered. “Are you awake?”

“ _Ja._ ”

Arthur dangled his phone over the edge of his mattress. “Can you read this?”

Mikkel took it, making sure to brush their fingers together. It took him some time and he had to move his fingertip along under each word, but he got through it. It was a message on Facebook, from Ludwig Beilschmidt.

**Hi. I just wanted to say**

**I really admire you** **and**

**Mikkel for being so brave.**

**I know it’s** **2018 now but**

**there are still a lot of people**

**who don’t understand and**

**don’t want to** **understand.**

**My father is like that. So it**

**made me happy to know**

**that you were** **safe enough to**

**be open about being gay.**

**I want to call you inspiring but**

**I** **think** **maybe that sounds**

 **too cheesy. So I guess** **I’ll**

**just say thank you and I hope**

**you two** **can stay happy** **for**

 **a long time. Happy** **New Year.**

For the first time in a good while, Mikkel was speechless in a good way. “That’s . . . really nice of him. And sad. What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know yet.” Arthur took the phone back. “I don’t know if I should send something back tonight or just let him sleep on it. I don’t know what would be worse.”

Mikkel hummed. If Ludwig was anything like Arthur, he’d make himself crazy wondering what the other person was going to say. “Maybe tonight is better.”

“You’re probably right.” Arthur was silent for several moments, then dangled the phone again. His voice sounded different, softer now. “How’s that?”

**That’s very sweet of you** **to say.**

 **Thank you** **for taking the time** **to**

 **write that. I’m sorry** **your father**

**isn’t supportive, but perhaps in**

**time he’ll change his mind. Until**

**then, if you** **ever want to talk**

**about anything, you can feel**

**free to message me. I know** **how**

 **stressful and** **awful this can feel.**

 **Maybe I can help, I don’t** **know. I just**

**know it’s a lot harder to do it alone.**

**Happy Near Year, Ludwig.**

**I hope you can be** **happy too :)**

“Is it too emotional? Too mushy?” Arthur asked. “I can’t tell. I’m all full of . . . tonight.”

Mikkel knew what he meant. He felt drunk on happiness. “No. It’s perfect. Send it.”

Arthur took his phone back. Then they lay in the dark silence together, waiting. Ludwig was probably asleep. It was past three in the morning, after all, and they’d taken almost ten minutes to reply to him. This endless night was fading . . .

Arthur’s phone lit up. Mikkel lifted up on an elbow when he saw Arthur’s smile. Arthur didn’t say anything at all, just turned the phone so he could see.

**:)**


	6. January

It might have been his resolution, but the only writing Arthur did in January was on his midterms. He felt a bit off about them, once they were done. It wasn’t that he was worried he’d done poorly . . . it wasn’t even that he was worried about himself, he realized as he sat waiting to leave the English exam that he’d finished before everyone but the stoners. He was worried about the one who wasn’t in here right now.

They’d gone over every detail the past few nights. Arthur asked questions, Mikkel answered them. Back and forth until Arthur thought he was going to lose his voice. Because they didn’t want to overdose on cookies in the process of positive reinforcement, Mikkel got a kiss for every one that he got right. They’d ended up wincing by the end. ( _Sorry. What is that? Chapstick. My lips are dry. I could lick them for you. No! Mm, tastes like vanilla. God, you’re nasty. You have no idea._ ) They’d gone over the hardest ones on the bus this morning too. Mikkel was as ready as Arthur could conceivably get him.

 _It’s his job,_ he told himself. _Not mine. It’s up to him now._

“Alright,” Mrs. Kirkland said from the front. “Those who are finished are free to go. Leave your dictionaries at the front, if you took one. The rest of you have thirty more minutes. Take your time.”

Arthur felt naked, leaving the room with only a couple pens and a book he hadn’t been able to pay attention to. He tried peeking into the computer lab, where an EA was going over the exam with Mikkel, but they’d closed the door and drawn the blind over the window.

Arthur knocked his knuckles silently against the door. _Good luck, Dane._

He saw Antonio walk by when he was sipping from the fountain and hurried to catch up with him. “History?”

“Achhghh,” Antonio agreed. He took a sip of something Arthur was pretty sure was iced coffee and grimaced. “The hot stuff gets cold, the cold stuff gets hot. You can’t save anything.”

“That’s what thermoses are for, I think,” Arthur told him. He didn’t want to take him too seriously. Francis had been the only one in touch with Antonio during his time out of the country, and apparently there hadn’t been a lot of good news. “They missed you at the party.”

“But you didn’t?” Antonio said, watching him sidelong.

“Oh,” Arthur said as they both swung up into seats in the cafeteria, “you know how I feel about you, Toni.”

Antonio laughed. He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and slid across the table what appeared to be two sticks folded together. “Here, fucker.”

Arthur picked it up and, after a brief moment of experimentation, realized it was a bright red fan. “This is just what I needed in the middle of winter.”

“You’re not really gay,” Antonio told him, “until you have a fan.”

Arthur gave him a look and he cackled. Arthur shook his head. “Did you drive? You don’t have to wait for me.”

“Eh.” Antonio crossed his arms on the tabletop, studying his hands. He had callouses on the tips of his fingers. “I’m in no hurry to go home.”

Arthur watched him. He’d given Ludwig the option to talk to him if he needed it, but that same offer couldn’t apply to Antonio when he was keeping such a big part of his life secret. When you couldn’t talk about things like that, what was the point of even having friends? Looking at Antonio now, in all his scruffy-curled olive-skinned glory, Arthur saw someone who looked more alone than he himself had ever felt.

“I hope your Christmas was alright,” he found himself saying. “Even with—everything.”

Antonio looked up at him. He didn’t ask what _everything_ was. He just nodded a little and smiled with half his mouth, pensive. “Yeah, it was okay. I lived.”

“Did you sing _Feliz Navidad_?”

“Dude, that song is Puerto Rican,” Antonio said. “Don’t be racist.”

“You colonized Puerto Rico.”

“Well.” Antonio smirked. “ _I_ didn’t.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Fuck my life,” Gilbert said by way of greeting. He scuffed a hand over the top of Antonio’s head—the curls falling effortlessly back into place, of course—as he sat beside him. “Seriously. One of you bend my life over a couch and fuck it. That way, when my father sees what I got on that exam maybe he’ll take pity and not fuck it so hard himself.”

“First of all, you have to stop,” Arthur said.

Gilbert cringed. “Don’t get turned on by my father, that’s fucking disgusting.”

“Pink elephants,” Antonio said, elbowing Gilbert. “Lock me up, Officer.”

_“Stop.”_

“Second,” Arthur said, loud enough to be heard, “what did you just have—geography?”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I took that last year,” Arthur said. “That was just mountains and valleys and . . . I dunno.”

“Exactly,” Gilbert said, pointing at him. “I also _dunno._ And I don’t want my father thinking I’m bad at geography. He won’t let me fire a gun if I don’t have good spatial awareness or whatever.”

“I don’t think he’ll draw a line between those,” Arthur told him. “He’s prob—”

Hands grabbed him by the shoulders from behind and he almost jumped right out of his seat. Then Mikkel was hugging him and Arthur spun his chair around. “You just scared the goddamn living daylights out of me, I hope you—what? Was it okay?”

Mikkel was practically vibrating. He hugged Arthur to him, his face for once buried in Arthur’s shoulder. He hadn’t held him this tight, like he didn’t realize quite how tight it really was, since they got their grades back for the short story. _That was September._ It felt like a lifetime ago.

When Mikkel finally pulled back, Arthur glimpsed tears in his eyes for a split second before the warmth of his megawatt grin evaporated them. “This is the first time I’ve ever _not_ been worried about exams. It went really well. Thank you.”

Arthur allowed a short kiss before he turned his chair back around and Mikkel climbed up to sit beside him. (Not really climbed. Arthur had to climb. Mikkel just had to lift a leg and he was basically already on the stool seat.) “I could thank you, too,” he pointed out. “You helped me pass math.”

“Jeez,” Gilbert said, mostly talking over him. “Why weren’t you helping us study, if you’re so magical?”

Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want my magic touch, Beilschmidt?”

Mikkel smirked, an arm slipping around Arthur. “Look but don’t touch.”

 _Was that too much?_ It didn’t feel like too much. It felt like _you’re driving me crazy._

Antonio’s phone buzzed on the table. Arthur saw Francis’s name before Antonio locked it without even looking at it. “They should have had more food,” he said. “I’m starving.”

“Got change?” Gilbert rifled in his pockets. They all heard the jangling. “Want something out of the vending machine?”

“Mmm, latex fruit gummies.” But he took the offering and left. They all watched him go.

“He’s the gloomy one now,” Mikkel said. “Poor Toni.”

“Poor Toni,” Gilbert echoed, watching him all the way across the cafeteria. Arthur wondered what Gilbert was thinking. Maybe he knew, too. Maybe it was just a secret to each other. _We’re not the ones you have to worry about,_ Arthur thought to Antonio. _We want to help you._

But really, at the end of the day, there was very little they could do.

“What is that?” Mikkel asked.

“Oh, it’s a fan,” Arthur said.

“Because he’s gay,” Gilbert said.

Mikkel stared at them. “. . . Okay.”

Antonio’s phone buzzed again. They all pretended to ignore it.

“If gays get fans,” Mikkel said suddenly, “what do straights get?”

“Divorce,” Arthur replied.

“Goddamn it,” Gilbert said.

* * *

As it turned out, Arthur was not alone in art class this semester. Francis was taking Art 12 a year early, and so his New Year’s Resolution was immediately tested. Arthur was, in a way, a ward. If Francis sat with him, the shallow followers would stay away. And they did.

“They really just want things from me,” Francis said. He was smudging chalk pastel across his paper. A brush of his thumb made the sky, squiggles of his fingertips made the ground. He _must_ have worked to be this elegant. “Help with artwork, help with French, help with clothes.”

“You’re too nice,” Arthur said. It wasn’t _quite_ the truth, but close enough. “You give too much of yourself to people. Or you give yourself to too many people.”

“Or both,” Francis agreed. 

Now he was drawing a landscape with a thin stick of charcoal. Arthur watched him only a couple moments before he said, “I can already tell I’m going to regret sitting next to you.”

Francis actually looked panicked. “Why?”

“Because you can do _that_!” Arthur gestured to the sketch he had going. It was so . . . quaint. Whimsical. Like the things Mikkel did, but lighter. Arthur shook his head first at the art, then at Francis. “Did you think I was serious?”

Francis opened his mouth, then shrugged, looking down. “I just . . . I’m sorry. I am being emotional.”

Arthur leaned forward a little, trying to see Francis’s face past his curtain of hair. “Did something happen?”

Francis shrugged again.

“With Toni?”

Now Francis crumpled, and Arthur looked away, trying to spare him the humiliation. “No, don’t cry, it’s fine. Forget I said anything.” He wondered if he should go up to the front and get a couple tissues from the teacher’s desk or if that would just draw unnecessary attention. “It’s just leftover drama from the Christmas trip, it’s nothing you’ve done.”

“No.” Francis sniffed, wiping his eyes with one pinkie; the rest of his fingers were coated in dust. “He told me to stop texting him this morning. He said he needed a break from me. I don’t know what’s going to happen at lunch . . .”

One part of Arthur was aware that this was the sort of thing his mother made fun of teenagers for, this great worry about who they would walk with or sit with. But the larger part of him knew that this was a big problem, no matter what external sources thought of it. A huge portion of their lives was spent in that cafeteria. Who joined them at the table was a large determination on the quality of any given day.

“If he doesn’t want to sit with you, then he should know that means he can’t sit with us,” Arthur said, knowing it was flawed logic even as he said it.

“But that’s taking sides,” Francis said. “Why do I get all of you, not him?”

 _And I was the one wanting to tell Toni he could talk to me._ “We’re not kids in a divorce,” Arthur said. “This is ridiculous.”

Francis shrugged again, helpless.

“. . . Maybe Gil could go somewhere with Toni,” Arthur offered. “And Mick and I can sit with you.”

“And Toni gets you on the weekends?” Francis asked, with a self-deprecating, world-weary smile that should have been on Arthur’s face.

Arthur didn’t have an answer to it. Friends had no square root.

“I’ll just sit with Lovino and Feli,” Francis said after the silence had drawn on a little too long. “I don’t mind. Actually, I don’t even think I will be going to lunch today. Maybe not even the rest of the month. We have to get the murals finished.”

What Arthur said: “I thought there was just the one.”

What he wanted to say: _Don’t take yourself out of your own life, Francis. I did it, and it hurt going back in._ But how was he supposed to say that?

“There is one main mural,” Francis replied, “but we have three other smaller ones to go in the halls and around. They are for taking pictures and just to add to the theme. The principal said we can’t bring in anything to be fake snow because it is a fire hazard, so we’re trying to make it look good.” He pushed all his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes with a sigh. “It feels like everything is going wrong.”

 _And a happy new year._ When had Arthur become the happiest of his friends? What an odd thing to realize. He didn’t like it, for more than one reason.

“We can help you with the painting,” Arthur said. “Me and Mick. Get Gil to do it, too, I’m sure he’d say yes. He might bring Ludwig too. And I could ask Alfred and Matthew to come.”

A social network. A web with him at the centre. Stranger than strange.

Francis turned to look at him, light slowly returning to those blue eyes. “Would that work?”

“If you give us simple stuff, it will. Well, Mick can work miracles with paint, but for the rest of us. But if you show us what you want and give us outlines, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Anyone can paint by numbers.”

Francis smiled, blinking so much that Arthur thought he was fluttering his eyelashes as some seduction joke until he saw the tears Francis was stifling. “Thank you,” he said, rather unevenly. “I would hug you, but my hands—”

“That’s fine,” Arthur said. “No hard feelings about the hug. Trust me.”

Francis laughed. “You are something, mon ami.”

Arthur let that fondness warm him from the inside out, but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t be thanked. He’d been going nowhere fast—and at times going downhill at terminal velocity—before all this happened. All Arthur had done was struggle to keep his head above water.

It was Mikkel who had dived in to save him.

* * *

Mikkel was delighted by the murals, because of course he was. Gilbert and his brother were less enthusiastic, but Gilbert had nothing better to do during his lunch period and it became immediately apparent that Ludwig would do anything at all as long as it was Feliciano who asked. _Could you maybe do this a little darker? That looks really good, can we try this? Do you mind finishing this part for me?_ Arthur was watching Ludwig—he’d never seen anyone break a sweat painting a penguin until today—and thinking about the fact that the freshman had yet to take him up on his offer of messaging about his troubles. This was why he didn’t hear Mikkel saying his name until his lips were touching his ear.

“Don’t jump,” Mikkel said.

“Jesus,” Arthur said, jumping.

“Well, I tried.” Mikkel laughed. “You’re like a cat. You spook.”

“Most people would when someone licks their ear.”

“I didn’t lick,” Mikkel protested. “Would that have helped? I can do that next time.”

“No. Don’t lick any of me.” A pause. “Well—”

“Don’t even start, Kirkland,” Gilbert said, behind them. “TMI.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude.”

They were unsupervised for this, obviously. Because there was no room for a project of this size in the art room, they were set up in the disused home ec room down in the basement. Arthur and Mikkel were working on the second biggest mural; it was hanging on the wall because they didn’t have enough tables for it. Gilbert was painting over a washing machine. Alfred was out sick, but Matthew hadn’t come right out and said no when Arthur mentioned it to him. He was too shy for that. Arthur had impressed upon him that he didn’t have to and moved on with his life, hoping the poor kid would do the same.

“I have to paint over you,” Mikkel said.

Arthur looked up. Mikkel was doing the top half of the canvas and Arthur the lower, and because they’d started at opposite ends, they were now overlapping.

“So you do,” Arthur agreed. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Not for me,” Mikkel said, smirking.

Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Just don’t drip on me.”

“People,” Gilbert lamented, “please.”

“Really,” Lovino agreed on the other side of the room. He had earbuds in, but apparently the music wasn’t loud enough.

Mikkel giggled. How could Arthur feel weird about his laugh when his _boyfriend_ was _giggling_?

“Oh,” Francis said suddenly. “Hello! Yes, come in.”

Arthur turned his head. Matthew was standing in the doorway, in a hoodie as usual, looking daunted just to be faced with a room of half a dozen people. _That was me,_ Arthur thought. It still was, depending on the situation. He waved from where he was crouched, offering a smile. It felt easy to do that, now.

Matthew smiled back, relief plain, and returned the wave shyly. He slid his bag off his shoulders, letting it rest near the pile the others had made in the corner. “Should I just . . . ?”

“Leave it anywhere,” Arthur told him. “On top of Mikkel’s, if you like.”

“Hey,” Mikkel said, but winked at Matthew.

“And you may want to take your sweater off,” Francis added. “If you think you might get paint on it. This is acrylic.”

Matthew looked again at the room, then down at his hoodie. Slowly, he tugged it off, then hurriedly pulled down his shirt when it tried to come along. Arthur saw a couple inches of belly for a second. Matthew really wasn’t as big as he thought he was. He was positively tiny, compared to the amount of anxiety he had.

“You can help Gilbert out,” Francis said, after a quick scan of their progress. “We need lots of tiny snowflakes. Can you do that?”

Gilbert glanced up. There was a moment between his eyes finding Matthew and the smile spreading on his lips that almost reminded Arthur of Mikkel. _I wonder . . ._

Matthew took a steadying breath and did his best to smile at Gilbert. “I can do that.”

Arthur heard them talking, Gilbert asking the questions, Matthew providing shy answers, the slow tempting of the turtle from its shell. Now he really was reminded of Mikkel, and himself. He painted a bow tie onto a penguin with the last of his red paint and warned, “I’m coming up,” before standing to get some more. Mikkel stepped out of his way. When Arthur came back, he poked Mikkel’s arm and beckoned him. Mikkel smiled indulgently and leaned down so his ear was in front of Arthur’s mouth.

“Was I that bad?” he whispered, then nodded slightly in Matthew’s direction.

Mikkel glanced over at them, considering, then shook his head with a reassuring smile.

Arthur started to crouch down again, but stopped when he felt Mikkel’s chest against his shoulders. Warm breath tickled his ear: _“You were worse.”_

“I wouldn’t say things like that,” Arthur told him, at full volume this time, “with me down here.” He glanced up from where he was crouched, then looked sidelong at Mikkel’s belt, then back up at him. “There might be an accident.”

Before Mikkel could respond, Gilbert called, “No more filth allowed. There’s a nice person in here now.”

Everyone perked up their ears now.

It took him a few seconds too long, and he was blushing as he said it, but Matthew got it out: “Hey. Feli’s nice, too.”

Feliciano was the only one who laughed, but the rest of them gave him amused smiles. Matthew wasn’t afraid to talk to them, after that. Especially not to Gilbert.

Arthur continued to be amazed at the capacity people had to be human beings.

* * *

Artwork wasn’t only done at school. Like Mikkel, Arthur had begun doing pieces at home in an attempt to put a dent in the mountainous pile of work they were assigned at the beginning of the semester. Most students didn’t even attempt to finish all of it, settling for a mark in the 70s or 80s and only doing the projects they actually liked. Arthur thought someone looking to do a bachelor of arts would come off a bit weird if he was lazy about art . . . even if it was _visual_ art, something he was of two minds about because a painting could describe an intricate scene in seconds whereas a novel needed pages, but also in order to get that painting you had to paint it. And he hated painting.

“How can you hate painting?” Mikkel asked one night when they were setting up the kitchen table. They laid out newspaper under the sketchbook to make for less cleanup. Mikkel hadn’t done that when he painted at home, but Arthur was taking no chances. “It’s the most fun. Especially abstract. You just keep going until it looks good.”

“I _hate_ abstract,” Arthur said. “It’s meaningless. It’s a waste of time. I might as well just dump the whole paint set onto the page and pass it in.”

“You could do that,” Mikkel said, amused. “Liz did that. She spilled green paint over half her work and passed that in.”

“And I’m sure she got top marks for it.”

“One of them got hanged in the back.”

 _Hung,_ Arthur thought. He didn’t bother correcting, though; he liked the image of a world where nonsense like that got put to the gallows. “You couldn’t get away with that in writing. You can’t just put random letters over a page. Well, you can put random words, but then that becomes free verse poetry, which is a whole _other_ thing I hate.”

“You hate everything,” Mikkel said, even more amused as he uncapped the paints.

“I certainly do,” Arthur agreed. He squeezed in between Mikkel and the table, even though it would be much easier to go around, and snuck a kiss to his chin. “You especially.”

“So mean to me.” Mikkel dipped a paintbrush into the white paint to mix it. “If you hate abstract so much, do you want to do splatter? Then it will go quicker.”

“How d’you mean? Just flicking paint onto the page?”

“Yeah.” Mikkel flicked some droplets of white on, to demonstrate.

Arthur could think of a couple things to compare that to, but he took his brain out of the gutter and scooped up some green paint. This wasn’t _exactly_ fun, but it was entertaining. And the fact that Arthur was going to get graded on something that took this little amount of brain power? That was definitely an upside.

They did three different splatter pieces, then Mikkel drew a self portrait in vague, harsh lines that Arthur filled in with random bright colors. It looked like Picasso but uglier, which Arthur hadn’t realized was possible. Still, _Picasso but ugly_ was precisely the type of thing their art teacher would salivate over, so it was fine. Then they filled a page with swirls that intertwined and blended color from color. That one actually looked quite nice, though some parts of it were blended too much and turned grayish brown.

“That’s okay,” Mikkel said. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. That could be somebody’s favorite part of it.”

Arthur scoffed. “Now you’re sounding like Francis.”

“Is that bad?”

“Tsk.” Arthur reached up to touch him, then realized his hands were absolutely covered in paint. And some of his arms, as well. “Good God.”

Mikkel could see the writing on the wall there. He transported Arthur—physically _picked him up_ and carried him over—to the sink. Arthur tried to hide how much that made him blush. _I like when you carry me._ He couldn’t _say_ that. It sounded weak, or weird, or like he expected to be treated like a princess. He couldn’t tell Mikkel not to carry his bag and then ask to be picked up. But it did feel good. And it meant Mikkel was strong . . . and it was a turn-on . . .

Everything Mikkel did these days was a turn-on. It was ludicrous.

Mikkel turned the water on, and instead of standing beside Arthur to help scrub his hands like any sane person would, he stood right behind him. With his shoulders over Arthur’s shoulders. With his arms over Arthur’s arms. With his hips . . .

_Kill me. Murder me. Shoot me dead, right in this kitchen._

“Too close?” he asked, right in his ear.

Arthur swallowed. He didn’t want his voice to come out squeaky, so he shook his head.

Mikkel scrubbed his hands harder; the paint was stubborn. The jerky motion had their hips bumping together. _Oh, my God._ Arthur’s mother was upstairs, gone to bed early with a migraine. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been hard with her in the house before, but Jesus—this was the kitchen. Everything felt a hundred times filthier in the kitchen.

Mikkel must have felt the same way, because he said, “Maybe I am too close.”

“Maybe,” Arthur echoed, somehow tight and faint at the same time.

Mikkel didn’t move, though. He just rinsed Arthur’s hands, then nuzzled at the hair above his ear. “Soft.”

Arthur took measured breaths. He thought of flowers. And clouds. And sea turtles. He was zen.

“I wish,” Mikkel whispered, and for the first time Arthur heard actual gravel in his voice, something serious beyond just _being_ serious, “we could be alone.”

Lust. That’s what that rumble was. Arthur often wondered how things were so cut and dry in smut, but there really was no mistaking that heavy rasp. He could _feel_ it, the need in every breath, every swell of Mikkel’s chest against his back. The pressure of the hands holding his wrists. And maybe . . . maybe something else . . .

That was definitely a thing. The penis issue.

Arthur had one. There was an increasingly good chance Mikkel had one. Presumably they were the same in general design. (He’d Googled _circumcision in denmark_ and gotten a couple articles about a potential ban and the rights of children, which was nice, but no statistics had been readily available and clicking beyond the first page of results felt like it was crossing that line into _too creepy_.) It was just that Arthur hadn’t seen it. That was the major problem. New situations were difficult, and you never got to spend time with a penis before the main event. If a penis was involved, something was invariably happening. It wasn’t like he could have a meet-and-greet with the thing. And that was why Arthur had dread tangled up in his desire. It would be too much new. Nakedness for the first time and sex for the first time on top of that. A recipe for a breakdown if Arthur had ever heard one.

Thinking about all of that made him blush, naturally. Mikkel smiled against his temple. “Am I embarrassing you?”

“No.” Arthur couldn’t bear to move. What if he bumped up against something? What if the bulge was more obvious than it felt? What if Mikkel thought he was weird or overeager or . . . _You’re an idiot. A dysfunctional idiot._ “I’m doing that all by myself.”

“Hey.” Mikkel stepped back, and the loss of him was like a kick in the chest. He turned Arthur around, easy as you please, and framed his face in his hands. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” This was when Arthur realized he had tears in his eyes. When did those get there? He didn’t even feel that upset, honestly. He was getting so good at having breakdowns, he could multitask during them. “I just don’t want to waste your time. And I want to do things right for you. But I don’t know how to do them.”

“There’s no right,” Mikkel told him gently. “There are no things. I don’t have a list of demands.”

Maybe Arthur shouldn’t have been basing his relationship off stories written by straight girls on the internet. But they all went so similarly. The bottom always had a certain list of things to check off. His job was making the top feel good, feel strong, feel big. He got on his knees and opened up and took what was given to him. The top just had to make sure the bottom came first, and that he was okay afterward. Half the time they didn’t even do that. Maybe Arthur should have done some actual research on this. But why? Did straight people do research on relationships? A second of epiphany. Was that why women read those magazines next to the checkout in the grocery store?

“I don’t know anything,” Arthur said. He had tears in his voice now, it was doing that shaky thing. He really didn’t feel upset, though. He felt . . . relieved. Was he really _that_ worked up about all this? And was it really _this_ easy to make that feeling go away? By—talking? _Who knew?_

“And you think I do?” Mikkel shook his head, hands falling down to Arthur’s shoulders. “I told you. This is my first time with a guy.” His smile faltered, then crinkled, sheepish. “Or with anyone. Like that.”

 _No._ Arthur’s mind searched for alternate meanings to that. A poor translation. Surely. “I thought you said you’d dated girls?”

“Dated. Yes.” Mikkel ducked his chin a little, blue eyes a little helpless. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

Mikkel leaned closer to whisper in his ear—so he wouldn’t have to look at his face. Arthur knew the technique well.

_“I’m a virgin.”_

Arthur reeled back. “You are not.”

Mikkel laughed. “Why would I lie?” 

“To make me feel better.”

“I have never lied to you.” Barely even a second’s pause. “Well. I did a lie of omission, because I didn’t tell you that I told Tino and Berwald that we were dating. At Christmas. But that’s all okay now.”

Arthur couldn’t even focus on that long enough to wonder if he should be cross. “Okay. But. How are you a virgin?” He gestured to him. “You look like that! Don’t tell me the rest of the people in Denmark are even hotter than you and you’re some weird outcast because you don’t radiate Scandinavian purity.”

Now it was Mikkel with tears in his eyes, as bizarre as that was. He was laughing too hard to speak clearly. “Stop. I will—” He shook his head, leaning back against the counter with a hand on his chest. “Ah. You give me heart attack.”

“If anyone in this relationship is having a heart attack, it isn’t you.” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “Were you planning on telling me that, at any point?”

Mikkel wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and cleared his throat. “Sure. Eventually.”

“Eventually. After I’d suffered enough?”

“I didn’t know you were suffering this much.”

Arthur huffed. Now he had to reexamine all this. He needed at least two evenings alone in his room to think about how to be properly stressed out about this. But it did create a baseline of informality. They were both virgins. They had no expectations, and no experience to build from. Really, that was the best card Arthur could have been dealt. But still, that nagging doubt . . .

Mikkel’s hands distracted him. They didn’t cup his face; they cupped the small of his back. He smiled down at Arthur, abruptly fond. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And if you want me to be honest? We probably won’t get very far the first time anyway. Very good chance.”

Arthur stared at him. Then his gaze flicked downward. “Did you . . .”

 _“No.”_ Mikkel puffed out his chest, but the look in his eyes fooled no one.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Mikkel shifted his weight. “But, uh, almost.”

And through stress and uncertainty came the saving grace: _I did that._

Power converted economically to pride. Arthur smirked. “And I thought I was bad.”

“Oh, you are.” Mikkel narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re terrible.”

“So maybe . . .” Arthur felt a little dash of fear, to be saying this, but the relief of communication outweighed it. “Maybe if we _do_ end up—doing something, we can just say the first time doesn’t count. It’s a practise run.”

Eyes like ice shouldn’t have been able to be so warm. “A rehearsal.”

“Exactly. A rehearsal.” Arthur was quick to add, “If we do anything. Which we might not. Ever. Just so you know. Depending on. Multiple factors. Okay?”

“Okay.” Mikkel’s eyes were squinty in the corners again.

“Good.” Arthur offered a hand, mostly cleaned of paint. “Should we shake on it?”

Mikkel’s hand closed around his and shook firmly, twice. “So,” he said. “Do you still think abstract art is meaningless?”

Arthur gave him a sidelong look, but the only thing in his head was _I love you_ in all the different colors they’d painted with so he kept his mouth shut.

* * *

As soon as the class walked into the gym first period and saw that the bleachers had been pulled out, more than half of them groaned. Not loud enough to be heard by the teacher, but loud enough that Mikkel glanced over in confusion. “What is this?”

“A presentation,” Arthur told him. “They would’ve skipped if they knew about it.”

“That’s why they don’t tell us anything anymore,” Antonio said, throwing his head back with a sigh of disgust.

Arthur could count on his hands the amount of words he’d shared with Antonio since speaking to Francis. He’d been cutting class more and more lately, or not even showing up to school at all. He was never anywhere to be seen in the cafeteria, on the days they didn’t paint. The fact that he was here for gym, first thing in the morning, was bizarre enough that he asked, “Were you looking forward to volleyball?”

Antonio gave him a weird look. “I was looking forward to not—never mind.” He turned away, scuffing a black streak onto the floor with his boot. “Who cares.” 

“Hey.” Gilbert nudged Antonio’s shoulder with his own, erasing the rubber mark with his heel. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll sit up in the back, you can have a siesta while they talk.”

The principal came on the announcements, calling the grade twelves to the gym.

Arthur tugged on Mikkel’s sleeve. “Come on. Before we get trampled.”

It was only when they’d found themselves seats up in the top row—Arthur between Gilbert and Mikkel—that he heard the murmur: “I wouldn’t let you get trampled.”

Arthur took Mikkel’s hand, smiling faintly down at their boots.

“Gross,” Antonio said. He didn’t sound like he was kidding.

Arthur looked up.

He didn’t look like he was kidding either.

“Hey,” Gilbert said again, cutting into the moment of tension. “Let’s just chill out. It’s too early in the morning to talk anyway. We all need caffeine.”

Arthur did not need caffeine, and he knew full well Gilbert didn’t either. He was a Morning Person, somehow; probably some German military routine had been bred into him. But since when had Gilbert been a diplomat? Francis was usually the one appealing to both sides—often to his own detriment—while Gilbert avoided the conflict until it was sorted out. But now he was trying to smooth things out? Not very well, granted, but he was still trying. Arthur’s only theory was that Matthew, who was almost always the one to try and form compromises during disagreements in the GSA, had been rubbing off on him.

Regardless. Arthur gave Antonio a long look before angling himself toward Mikkel, who had his fake smile on and a protective hardness to his eyes. He nuzzled the side of Arthur’s head so he could whisper, “He’s probably drunk.”

Arthur jolted at that. Drunk? In the morning? At school? No, surely not. Wouldn’t he have red eyes and slurred speech and all those things they’d warned about in _Just Say NO_ health class? And he’d driven himself to school this morning. He couldn’t be drunk . . . but what did Arthur know about alcohol? Maybe you didn’t have to be staggering around like an idiot to be intoxicated. Maybe, if you did it enough, you could be fucked up all the time and nobody would know. He didn’t think he’d ever smelled booze on Antonio, but then again—he did wear an awful lot of obnoxiously potent AXE.

Maybe that’s what that darkness was that now clung to Antonio. Maybe it wasn’t a mysterious rain cloud, but a rotting fungus.

Now the grade twelves were streaming in. Mikkel distracted Arthur by pointing out things about them. _She reminds me of a girl back home, she has three rats and two lizards. Oh, he should maybe shave that off his face, it looks like it doesn’t want to be there. Didn’t you say those two have been dating since grade grade ten? They don’t even hold hands. Hey, look at that guy’s hair!_

Arthur followed his gaze to a guy even taller than Mikkel, by the look of it, with blond hair held upright by, presumably, multiple handfuls of styling gel. He was the only guy, aside from Francis and the art teacher, to wear a scarf around all day. And, though he was sitting around people and they were talking to him and laughing, he never stopped looking intense and solemn. Like all of this was just fluff, and he was waiting for something important to happen.

“Well, well,” Arthur said. “They finally let him back.”

“Who is he?”

“Lars van den Berg. He got suspended for being _involved_ in a drug deal back in the fall. Or so they say.” There was no end of gossip to be heard, if you were in the right spot. Of course, now that he had friends to talk to, he had to get all his rumors from Francis. He was a fairly reliable source, however. “I asked Mum, but she wouldn’t give me a straight answer. I believe it, though.”

Mikkel watched Lars closely. “He doesn’t look like a stoner.”

“No, he doesn’t, does he?” But he was one—and he liked stronger stuff, too, if you believed the things the seniors said while they were waiting for the teacher to arrive after lunch. “He kind of looks like you, actually.”

“Wha?” Mikkel’s brow furrowed. “He does not.”

“Tall, blond—”

“Lots of people are tall and blond.”

“Nice jawline—”

“You like his jawline?” Mikkel looked offended. “Mine is way better.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Arthur said. He was putting most of his effort into not laughing. “I’m not going to lie and say he’s ugly.”

Mikkel frowned. “This doesn’t feel fair. Am I allowed to say when boys look cute?”

“It’s a free country.”

“And girls?”

“Well.”

Mikkel put his arm around Arthur, squeezing him and pinching his side through his coat. “You little—”

At the front, the principal tapped on the microphone. “Can I have your attention please?”

They all hushed, but Arthur leaned into Mikkel enough to whisper, “Your jawline’s better.”

* * *

“What’s up, sluts?” Emily said.

“Still not funny,” Arthur said, setting his bag down on a chair without looking at her. “Hasn’t been the past thirty times.”

The presentation had been a young woman telling her story of being assaulted by her boyfriend, and about the culture they’d developed of calling sexual men normal and sexual women sluts. She’d basically told them to never use the word slut again, so of course everyone had been using it nonstop all day. Arthur hadn’t agreed with more than one point she made, but her main point was still about rape. Being _ha ha ironic_ about sexual assault felt a little too irreverent, even to him.

“It is funny,” Emily insisted. “I’m calling you sluts because you’re allo.”

“Hang on.” Arthur paused a moment, gaze in the middle distance, then looked at her. “Nope. Still not funny.”

“Don’t be such a dad,” Leon said.

“Then don’t be children,” Arthur retorted. This was what happened then the teacher whose room this belonged to had to be in a meeting in the staffroom. Left to their own devices, fourteen-year-olds became a lot less _teen_ and a lot more _four-year-olds._

“It’s really not funny,” Ludwig agreed, quietly, at the back of the room.

Emily and Leon both rolled their eyes and took out their phones. Arthur looked up at Mikkel, who shrugged a _what are ya gonna do_ shrug. Arthur sighed. Nothing, was what he was _gonna_ do. Still, he gave Ludwig a friendly glance. Hesitantly, the freshman returned it.

“Yoyoyo,” was Alfred’s grand entrance this time. “So here’s what I’m thinking. Tell me I’m a genius. Ready? Okay: we should do a presentation.”

Everyone stared at him. Even Matthew.

“For what purpose?” Arthur eventually asked.

“To, like, educate people. To get ’em talking, like the slut one today.”

Emily stuck her tongue out at Arthur. He ignored her. “What would that look like?”

“That’s what we gotta talk about. I think we should do some definitions at the start. Most people don’t even know what GSA and LGBTQ stand for.”

“Are we even all comfortable talking in front of the school?” Mikkel suddenly asked, glancing around the room. Arthur saw that he wasn’t looking at _him_ , but he knew why he was asking. Actually, Arthur didn’t think he’d really mind a presentation like that—provided the lot of them were standing in front of everyone together. A spotlight shared was manageable. Alone in front of the whole school? Out of the question.

“No,” Matthew said softly, eyes round.

“No,” Ludwig echoed, just as small.

“Well,” Alfred said, “we don’t all have to talk. Nobody has to talk who isn’t comfortable. But we should all be helping out and stuff. It’s a GSA presentation, the GSA all has to take part in it.”

This was reasonable. Everyone nodded.

“Cool,” Alfred said, lighting up like he was pleasantly surprised they would follow him. He rubbed his hands together and grabbed a marker from the tray beneath the whiteboard. “Okay. Let’s do some good old-fashioned brainstorming.”

They were paired up: speakers and researchers. Arthur was still very much of the _I’d rather work by myself_ mindset when it came to things like essays, but for this he didn’t mind. He was partnered with Ludwig. Because of the uneven number, Mikkel got put with Emily and Leon. Arthur felt sorry for him even though he claimed he didn’t mind either of them and Emily had even taken to calling him _big bro._ ( _t’s ironic, I think,_ he said. _People should really learn what ironic means,_ Athur said.) Ludwig and Arthur were in charge of a slide about the difference between sexual orientation and gender. It was bizarre to Arthur that there will still people who confused the two, but then he considered the stoners at the back of English and it wasn’t such a leap. Then again, there was a high probability they were wasting their breath, but it would still be something.

 _Something to get people talking,_ Alfred kept saying. Arthur didn’t like to think of it as a conversation piece. There was a difference between good publicity and bad, contrary to popular belief. But if he thought about this presentation as something that could benefit someone in the audience with a phobic family, or a confused identity, or a feeling of being stranded in their own life . . . yes, it was a good idea.

“Do you think something like this would be good?” Ludwig asked, mousing over multiple diagrams of _genderbread people_ that basically amounted to the statement that gender was between your ears and sex was between your legs.

“I don’t like how that one’s colored,” Arthur said. “Pink and blue is a bit much.”

Ludwig nodded. “This one is purple.”

“Purple works.” Arthur watched him copy and paste the picture onto their slide. “So, does Gilbert know you’re going to be in this presentation?”

“Not yet.” Ludwig glanced up nervously. “He doesn’t know I’m in the GSA. Well. Not like this.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Really?” In a school so small, you’d think it would be impossible to sneak around, but Arthur had gone this entire week without seeing Antonio once, so it was attainable. Granted, Antonio was probably ditching a good amount of it, but even so. “Well, I know he won’t be upset. Don’t worry about him.”

“I’m trying not to.” Ludwig’s jaw tightened a little and he focused on the screen. He typed like a touch typist, his fingers always returning to F and J. Arthur wondered if his father had been militaristic about that too. “Is this all okay?”

Arthur had been reading along as he typed. “There should be a comma there,” he said, pointing. “Other than that, it’s good. But size it up a bit.”

“Okay.”

Arthur wanted to glance over to Mikkel, but he didn’t want Ludwig to think he was bored of him. So he slouched a little in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Does Feliciano know you’re in the GSA?”

Sure enough, Ludwig’s ears turned pink as soon as he heard the name. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Were you worried, when you told him?”

Ludwig shook his head. He had the pleading blue eyes of a husky puppy.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Ludwig replied. “He already knew, from Alfred. I guess they’re friends, I don’t know.” He lowered his voice, risking a glance in their fearless leader’s direction before resuming his work. “Alfred’s friends with everybody.”

“Mm.” Arthur wondered if Ludwig had ever considered doing something with his hair. It looked _fine_ , but his bangs hid too much of his face. He couldn’t pull off the messy look like Gilbert. Ludwig was too perfectionist with everything else to be _pretending not to care_ about his hair. “Feli didn’t judge you for it, did he?”

“No. He said he would maybe join.” Ludwig was just staring at his hands on the keyboard now. “After the semi-formal.”

 _Bless._ “Did he ask you to go with him?”

“No!” Ludwig actually raised his voice a little in his panic, then ducked his chin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Arthur gave his shoulder two pats. “You shouldn’t be so nervous, you know. You’re, what, five-seven?”

Ludwig swallowed. “Five-eight.”

“There you go. Who’s going to mess with you?”

Ludwig’s gaze looked several different places in the middle distance, but he couldn’t seem to find an answer there because he shrugged helplessly.

Arthur gestured to this lack of an answer and gave Ludwig a pointed look.

Ludwig sat up a little straighter. Arthur did, too, so he wouldn’t seem hypocritical.

“I want,” Ludwig said, then hesitated, then took the plunge: “I want to ask Feli. But I don’t know if he likes boys.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “He has a _Hello Kitty_ lanyard.”

“But—”

“With a giant pink puffball attached.”

“Well . . .”

“Even if he says no, he won’t hate you,” Arthur said. He didn’t know the Vargas brothers extremely well, but enough to know Feliciano couldn’t hate someone if he tried. Lovino must have sucked up all the hate when they were in the womb. “I can guarantee it.”

Ludwig pressed his lips together. “How do you do this without being nervous?”

Arthur stared at him. “. . . Are you serious? I’m having an arrhythmia just from _this_ conversation.”

“You don’t look like it.” Ludwig met his gaze, even though Arthur could see the fear in it. “You look really confident, all the time. You make it look easy.”

 _You don’t know what you’re talking about._ Was this how Francis and Gilbert and Antonio always felt, even when _they_ made it look easy? How disheartening, then, that no matter how it looked it never _was_ easy. But then again, perhaps that went both ways. Everyone else was struggling, too, even when it didn’t look that way. No one was ever better than anyone else. They were just better at playing the game.

“It’s not easy,” Arthur told him. “Things get easier to do as you go along, but there’ll always be new hard things you have to do. Maybe eventually you run out of new things and life isn’t scary anymore. That’s probably why old people don’t give a fuck about anything.”

Ludwig smiled, a bit, at that.

“You should ask him,” Arthur said, with a final nod. “That’s what I’d do, if I was five-eight.”

Ludwig’s smile widened. “Five-five isn’t so short.”

“Excuse me?”

Wide blue eyes. “Um. Five-six. Is pretty tall. It’s only two inches shorter—”

“Don’t you have a background to find for this slide?” Arthur sat back, arms crossed over his chest. He managed to hold the glower until Ludwig glanced at him, then they both had to look away to keep from laughing.

“So,” Mikkel said on their way to last period, “do we have a son now or what?”

“Shut up, _big bro_.”

* * *

Francis didn’t say he was delighted to put together outfits for Arthur and Mikkel to wear to the semi-formal, but they could both tell he was. After some trial and error in Francis’s walk-in closet, they settled on a black dress shirt beneath a blazer the color of a robin’s egg. Arthur was suspicious that none of the clothes—aside from the trousers—he had on were from the men’s section, but he knew better than to bring it up, especially right now. A fashion challenge was enough to make Francis smile, and it was a relief for him to finally have all the art and preparations done for the dance, but those blue eyes were still a mess of anxiety over Antonio.

Mikkel ended up in navy slacks and a white button-up. Arthur had never seen him in white before. “I’ve never really worn it before,” Mikkel admitted, looking down at himself as he walked out of the closet. “Is it good?”

Arthur stared.

Mikkel lifted an arm to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t know what— _what_?”

Arthur couldn’t speak. Beside him on the bed, Francis smiled kindly at Mikkel. “It’s always hard, the first time you see a well-dressed man lift his arms over his head. I should have rolled your sleeves down, I am being cruel to him. Just give him a moment.”

Mikkel grinned, though still a little hesitant. “Ten out of ten?”

“A hundred,” Arthur told him. “Out of ten.”

“Awww.” Mikkel blew Arthur a kiss, then deflated slightly. “What, you don’t swoon from that?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Francis gave him the smile this time. “He will figure it out. Eventually.”

“Let’s hope not.” Arthur stood up. “Well, thanks for the—”

“Wait!” Francis scurried into his closet, then came back out. “I almost forgot, I wanted to give you this.” He had a tiny snowflake full of—fake, hopefully—diamonds in his hand. He pinned it to Arthur’s lapel, regarded it, then nodded. “There.”

Arthur looked down at it. “. . . Thanks.” Well, if by chance there were a few people who hadn’t figured out yet that he was gay, this outfit would fill in the blanks. He glanced up at Mikkel, just to check that he was ready to leave, and found his boyfriend staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

Mikkel didn’t stop staring. “Nothing.”

Arthur lowered his brow at him, expecting a cheap shot at any second, but none came. He turned to Francis. “Are you sure you want to pick us up?”

“Yes, yes.” Francis was already migrating back to the closet, his natural habitat. “I’ll text you when I leave. Don’t spill anything on that shirt, Densen! Not until tonight!”

“Tonight—”

Arthur tugged him out to the car, before he hurt himself.

* * *

By some mercy, Mrs. Kirkland let them go without insisting on taking pictures first. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, smiling that witch’s grin of hers, “I’ll get plenty in June.”

Arthur wasn’t thinking about prom. He wasn’t thinking about summer, or even spring. He was trying not to think about Gilbert and Matthew, Ludwig and Feliciano, Francis and Antonio. He just wanted to think about how looking at Mikkel when he was dressed like that made him want to climb inside his skin, made him want to kiss every inch of his hands and his wrists and his jaw and his neck and his everything.

Sometimes he forgot how much of Mikkel there actually was. He just focused on the parts of him for so long, then suddenly he’d see him as a whole and be right back to the shock he felt when he first laid eyes on him. _It was only in September._ But it was centuries ago. Arthur was so much different now. And Mikkel seemed different, too, but maybe it was just the way he was dressed tonight. He looked . . . adult. Arthur watched him looking out the window in the backseat of Francis’s car and wondered for the billionth time how this person with thoughts and feelings had decided Arthur Kirkland was worth being the focus of them.

Mikkel caught him staring and smiled, the right side of his mouth tugging out farther than the left.

Arthur smiled, even though it probably looked idiotic, then looked out his own window.

Parking was atrocious at the school, so they stole a vaguely illegal spot on the side of the road and walked down the long way. Francis walked with his arms raised at his sides, paranoid of slipping and getting something on his nearly all-white outfit. ( _White pants?_ Mikkel’s eyes had bulged. _You’re a brave man._ ) Mikkel ended up taking both their hands when they crossed the really slippery bits, where the janitors never remembered to sprinkle salt. Then they were inside, at last, and the Christmas dubstep blaring from the gym was the only remaining hazard.

It became readily apparent that most people had not gone along with the idea of wearing wintery colors, but Arthur didn’t mind sticking out for once. Who would bother looking at him, anyway, when he was standing beside Francis and Mikkel? Gorgeous and gorgeouser?

There was a table set out near the gym doors covered in trays of cupcakes and cookies. “You have to try these,” Francis said, making two plates. “Feli made these, it’s a family recipe. The buttercream, mon dieu.”

This was already feeling a little too much like the party, only no one was drunk and there were chaperones wandering around with cups of fruit punch. Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from a school dance. The murals looked good, at least. Matthew had definitely taken _lots of snowflakes_ to heart.

They wandered into the gym, because there was nowhere else to go. The lights were dimmed and someone had brought in a bizarre blue-and-green strobe affair and put it toward the stage. People were gathered around it, but only the goofiest of the boys dared to fake-dance to a remix of _Up On The Rooftop._ Apparently, dances were just clusters of people standing around. At least Francis was right about one thing: the buttercream was delicious.

“Look,” Mikkel said suddenly, and the joy tightening his voice had Arthur’s gaze bounding over people. There was no question what Mikkel was referring to. Across the room, Ludwig—in a _bowtie_ —was talking to Feliciano and Lovino. He was standing at his full height, at last; he even had his hands clasped behind his back. He looked more like a waiter than anything, but Feliciano smiled and nodded. Hesitantly, Ludwig offered a hand. Feliciano took it, obviously pleased.

“My God,” Arthur said. “Lovino didn’t even roll his eyes. That’s practically a blessing.”

Mikkel grinned. “Our little guy is growing up.”

“Little—oh, and what do I spy over there?”

Alfred and Matthew were standing with Gilbert beneath the bars used for chin-ups. He had both arms up, holding onto the lowest bar and pretending not to notice the effect it was having on both sophomores. It was hard to tell at this distance, but Arthur knew who Gilbert was paying attention to.

Mikkel shook his head as if to clear it. “And I thought he was a filthy straight.”

Arthur smirked at his own words on a Danish tongue. “I suppose he could just be experimenting. Or he’s come to the dark side.”

“I thought it was the rainbow side.”

“Why not both?”

“Because a rainbow is light shining thr—”

“Alright, Dr. Densen. You . . .” He glanced at Francis, then looked again, feeling the playfulness inside him fizzle out. Francis looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Arthur followed his haunted gaze to the doors.

Antonio had just walked in, and he had his arm around Emma van den Berg’s waist. She was in their grade, Lars’s younger sister. She was nice, all things considered. All Arthur really knew about her was she liked cats and waffles, because she put it in all her bios on social media. And, apparently, Spanish boys could be added to the list.

“Francis,” Mikkel said, surprising Arthur a little even after all this. ( _They’re his friends, too._ ) “It’s okay. Maybe they’re just here as friends.”

A slow piano song fluttered out of the speakers. Couples made their way to the middle of the room and assumed the rotating death march. Antonio and Emma were among them. Ludwig and Feliciano were, too, but that was a silver lining on a very dark cloud.

Francis didn’t say a word. He dropped his cup of punch on the floor, splashing pink over his white pants, and ran out of the gym.

_Do I stay? Do I go?_

Gilbert was looking over at Arthur now. Antonio hadn’t noticed, or he was pretending not to.

Mikkel looked down at him, concern bright in his eyes.

“I’ll text you,” Arthur told him. “If I’m not coming back in here.”

Mikkel nodded. “I’ll clean this up.”

He still gave him a parting kiss, even now. He tasted like cupcakes.

Arthur couldn’t imagine Francis Bonnefoy willingly spending extra time outdoors, especially in this weather, so he headed for the bathrooms. The men’s was empty. A trio of grade nines were standing in front of the women’s.

“He went in there,” one of them said when Arthur glanced at them. “We were gonna tell on him, but he’s crying.”

“I guess you’re not allowed to cry in the boys’ bathroom,” another said.

“Toxic masculinity,” the third one added, shaking her head. Her snowflake earrings glittered.

“I’ll get him out,” Arthur said. “D’you mind keeping people out?”

“Do we get paid?”

“No.”

They shrugged. The one with the earrings said, “We’ll tell people there’s boys in there.”

“Unless you’re not boys,” one of them said suddenly.

Now all three were scrutinizing him. _Jesus._ “You were right the first time,” Arthur said, hurrying in before this could turn into an argument. He’d never been in here before, obviously, but he only took note of the lack of urinals briefly before his attention was captured by Francis. 

Sitting on the floor under the sinks. Knees drawn to his chest. Dust on his white pants. Sobbing into his arms.

The tables had turned. Arthur was sick of tables. He wanted to flip them all over and be done with it.

He got down on the floor and ducked underneath the sinks. Cobweb brushed his ear. He hunched over, trying to pick a pebble out of the tread in his boot.

Eventually, Francis took a shaky breath and managed, “I can’t believe I let all this happen. I thought . . . I was so stupid. I actually thought I knew what I was doing with my life.”

Arthur nodded slowly.

“I thought it was just his family doing this. But his family didn’t make him _come here_ with _her._ He tells me he loves me, every time he’s drunk.” He wiped his eyes furiously. “And sometimes when he’s not drunk he says it. How can he look at me and not know what it does to me? What is wrong with him?”

Arthur shook his head slowly.

“What is wrong with _me_?” Francis looked at him, finally, face a shiny mess. “Why do I keep caring about people who don’t give a shit about me?”

“Treat others how you want to be treated,” Arthur offered, quietly.

“Nobody does that anymore. That only worked when we were stupid little kids.” Francis sniffled, hard. “Now we’re supposed to be _smart_ young adults. Now that we actually understand that actions have consequences and people have feelings, _now_ we do all this terrible stuff to each other.”

Arthur pressed his lips together.

Francis let his legs fall out in front of him and his hands drop to his lap. He tucked his hair behind his ears. “Do you think he’s always hated me? Do you think he was just using me for sex?”

Arthur fought the temptation to just say _no_ outright. He couldn’t know for sure, after all. “I don’t think he would do that,” he replied instead. “You said he was good this summer, right? Without his family around?”

“He was happy,” Francis agreed, reluctantly. “And he kissed me, a couple times. But he still had to get drunk to sleep with me.”

“It’s not you,” Arthur said. That much he knew. “It’s shit he’s dealing with. I don’t think Toni would hurt you on purpose.” But then he remembered the disgust in his eyes when Arthur and Mikkel held hands. _He’s probably drunk._ Was that any excuse? Were they supposed to blame Antonio for his actions, or pity him for the treatment that led to them? _If he was a murderer, the victim would be dead regardless._

“I think,” Arthur said, “you shouldn’t want to be with this Toni, anyway. He’s different. He needs help that none of us can give him.”

Francis looked at him then, eyes wide and full of unfallen tears. He’d never looked so young, even when they were little kids. He’d never looked so . . . vulnerable.

Without warning, Francis surged forward and wrapped his arms tight around Arthur’s neck. “Oh—okay. Yes. Hug.” Arthur put his arms awkwardly around Francis’s middle, patting his back. “It’s alright.”

Francis smelled like perfume and sadness. He pressed his face into Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur wondered if his tears would leave marks on the blazer. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t going back into that gym tonight. That was a whole other planet—one without any oxygen.

“What are you doing under there?”

They broke apart. A girl was bent over, peering at them. Not one of the trio outside. She didn’t look upset, to her credit, just genuinely curious about what two boys might be doing under the sinks in a girls’ bathroom after dark.

“Having a moment,” Arthur replied, stiffly.

“Well, I’m gonna pee,” she told them. “You can keep momenting if you want.”

The moment was over, of course. Arthur crawled out from under the sink and offered a hand to help Francis up. They both had dust in their hair, and Francis took one look at himself in the mirror and shuddered. Arthur balled up the paper towel in a token attempt to soften it and Francis made himself look mostly presentable while the girl peed and washed her hands.

“I like your scarf,” she said to Francis.

Arthur thought Francis might start crying happy tears at that. He rubbed the scarf softly against his cheek, smiling that crumpled smile. “Thank you.”

The girl gave Arthur a weird look, for whatever reason, then walked out. Arthur returned the look—to her back, impotently—then looked at Francis. “Shall we go? I’ll text Mick and he’ll meet us outside. We can go out the other doors, we don’t have to go anywhere near the gym.”

“Yes we do.” Francis took a deep breath and nodded with grim determination. “I need another cupcake.”

* * *

Francis drove them down several side streets, listening to some extremely poignant pop music from his phone, before he finally delivered them back home. Mikkel reached between the seats to give Francis’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Francis did his best to smile. “Tomorrow.”

Arthur got out of the car and bent down to the window. “Text me tonight,” he said. “Or call. If you need.”

Francis nodded. “Thank you.” Then he gave a breathy little laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just being emotional. Nothing will happen.”

 _It better not._ “This too shall pass.”

“Oui, mon ami.” Francis took a deep breath. “Okay. Safe driving.”

“Safe driving,” Arthur and Mikkel repeated. They waved to him as he backed out of the driveway and drove away into the dark. Then it was just them in the silent cold of the night. The Christmas lights had been taken in, so it was just the street lights and the stars. It felt familiar. _October._ Arthur felt again like he was falling, but not out of his life.

Mikkel didn’t move from where he stood in the driveway, even when Arthur stepped toward the house. “What are you doing? You’re not wearing a coat. You’ll get sick.”

His smile was rueful. “I know. It’s just. We never got to dance.”

Arthur scoffed. “I can’t dance. You should know that by now.”

“Not dance dance.” Mikkel held out his hands. “Just. Dance.”

Arthur stared at him. Then, slowly, he walked over and took his hand. Mikkel twined their fingers, which Arthur was pretty sure was wrong, but it didn’t matter. Nothing was _wrong_ with Mikkel.

Mikkel’s other hand found its place on Arthur’s waist. He felt it, even through the shirt and the blazer. He put his own hand on Mikkel’s waist, and he tipped his head back to laugh. “Do you want to lead?”

“Maybe I do,” Arthur said, and lifted his arm to twirl him.

Mikkel didn’t duck enough and they ended up in a tangle. He laughed again, lower this time, a rumble in his chest. “I’ll follow you.”

Arthur’s hands found their way up to join at the back of Mikkel’s neck. “I don’t know where I’m going.”

Mikkel held his waist as they slowly moved, leaving a circle of footprints in the snow. He didn’t say anything, just bowed his head to nuzzle Arthur’s hair. Arthur closed his eyes. He tipped his face up and Mikkel kissed him, then kissed him again. Nothing was wrong with Mikkel.

Nothing was wrong. For once, just here, here, nothing was wrong.

When Mikkel pulled back, Arthur opened his eyes. He was staring down at him, blue eyes bright, grinning helplessly, breath clouding in the air between them. “Wow.”

Arthur couldn’t talk around the size of his heart. He just raised his eyebrows, trying not to smile. Trying not to fall apart. Trying not to melt in these arms.

It was the same look of amazement Mikkel had given him when Francis gave him the snowflake pin. Mikkel’s fingers brushed over it now, then lifted to lightly trace Arthur’s lips, his chin, his brow and his cheek. “I was trying to think of the word,” Mikkel said softly. “Now I found it. You sparkle.”

Arthur had to close his eyes again. He couldn’t. He couldn’t—

Ludwig thought he couldn’t. Matthew thought he couldn’t. Francis thought he couldn’t. No one thought they deserved happiness. Everyone wanted to be loved and no one could be brave enough to reach out and take it. They just stood by and watched in silence, afraid of doing something wrong.

_Nothing is wrong._

It hurt, but of course it did: he was reaching into his chest and tearing out his heart.

“I love you,” he said.

It was the first time Arthur had said it first.

Mikkel crushed them together, pressing his smile into Arthur’s hair. “I love you, too.”

_And the last._


	7. February

As outside grew warmer, inside grew colder. There had never been this cafeteria politics in Mikkel’s school in Denmark. The school was big enough that most people didn’t share a lunch with their closest friends; you sat with whoever you sat with. Lunch was for eating, for hurrying to finish homework before class, for chasing a football around outside. Mikkel often did more talking in class than he did at lunchtime.

But it was different here. Arthur claimed that the small school meant everyone knew each other too well for bullying, but it also meant everyone knew each other’s business, all the time. No anonymity meant always presenting some image of yourself, even if it was an _I don’t care_ image. Mikkel, personally, found it exhausting—and he had the advantage of being the exotic guy no one would ever see again. He could handle living in a log cabin off the grid, and he could handle living in a huge city where no one knew him, but this in-between of small towns . . . far too intimate.

More than once Arthur nudged his foot under the table. _You’re glaring._ Mikkel would duck his head, focusing on his food or, better yet, on his boyfriend. He just couldn’t help it. When Francis sat with them at lunch, which was most lunches now, Antonio would always find the opportunity to glare over at them from where he was sitting with Emma and Lars. Mikkel didn’t care if the glare was only aimed at Francis. If it was in Arthur’s general direction, Mikkel felt anger heating in his chest all the same.

He didn’t know when that had started. He hadn’t felt anything so intensely back in Denmark, or even in the early days of his relationship with Arthur. Sure, he’d felt protective of him, standing closer in crowds, that sort of thing—but now he was starting to worry that he was crossing into possessive territory. He didn’t like when people brushed against Arthur and didn’t apologize. He didn’t like when people didn’t move their bags out of Arthur’s way on the bus. Arthur had taken to tapping the tip of his nose, to tell him he was glowering.

_It’s just human decency. Right? I’m not acting like a serial killer. Right?_

It got to the point where he was moved to ask Gilbert about it. “I feel like I’m going crazy sometimes,” he said one day when they were working together in history. “I don’t know what I would do if somebody was actually mean to him.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Gilbert dragged his pencil along the coils of his notebook like a xylophone. “It’s like. I could strangle you right now, just for that.”

“Exactly.” Mikkel watched him. “Isn’t that bad?”

“I guess. Probably.” Gilbert shrugged. “Girls like it, though. I mean. People like it.” He glanced up. “But don’t _actually_ strangle somebody. _That_ is bad. Then you do look like a crazy person.”

Mikkel’s mouth slanted. “But. I just. I feel . . .” He searched for the English to describe the tense feeling inside him. “On edge. A lot of the time.”

Now Gilbert regarded him wisely. “Yeah? How long have you guys been dating, again?”

“Since the end of October.”

Gilbert counted on his fingers, then his brow furrowed. “How many times have you done it?”

Mikkel stared at him.

Gilbert stared, too, then his eyebrows spiked toward his hair. “Holy shit. Have you not had sex yet?”

“No.” Mikkel gnawed on his pencil. “It’s not _yet._ ”

“Hmm. I guess not.” Gilbert was the one watching him intently now. “So you haven’t done anything together? At all?”

Mikkel waited until the teacher had gone by to mumble, “We’ve kissed.”

“With tongue, I hope.”

“Yes, Gilbert.”

He chuckled. “Well, I don’t know what to think. You guys always say filthy shit, I figured you had something to back it up. I guess Arthur is all talk, huh?”

Arthur was all talk, until things got serious and he was no talk at all. Arthur spoke in stories; he acted, he _touched_ in truths. Mikkel couldn’t begin to explain that. And he didn’t want to give something that special to Gilbert, anyway. Or to anyone.

“I don’t know what Arthur does in his room,” Mikkel said. “But he hasn’t done anything with me.”

Gilbert laughed again. “Thanks for that image.” Then something different came into his tone. “So, like . . . have you talked about it with him?”

“Sex? Not really. A little. Why?”

“Well, like.” Gilbert shifted in his chair. “It’s different, isn’t it? With. Guys.”

Mikkel glanced at him, an eyebrow raised.

“You know what I mean. You know where stuff goes with a girl. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I guess . . .”

“I don’t know.” Gilbert shrugged again. “There’s just different stuff you have to do, I guess. With two dudes. You have to—” His gaze flitted to Mikkel and pink came into his cheeks. “I don’t know. I was just kinda reading about it the other night. ’Cause I’d never thought about it before. So I was. Curious.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Anyway. I was saying.” Gilbert focused on Mikkel, shouldering his confidence on again. “I think you’ll feel more chill after you get rid of the blue balls.”

“They’re not blue.” Mikkel sank his teeth into the plastic pencil guard. “Just kind of like a robin egg.”

Gilbert cackled. “Yeah? You sh—” The teacher gave them a pointed look and he ducked his head, clearing his throat. “Okay. So, what, the ships hit each other because they couldn’t get out of the way fast enough? And then two thousand people died?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Mikkel agreed, staring at the textbook. Words swirled across the page.

“God.” Gilbert shook his head, grim. “I’d rather learn about war. At least those have reasons.”

Mikkel didn’t say anything. Too many things happened for no reason.

* * *

Gilbert hadn’t made a big deal of the news like Mikkel had expected. One day he didn’t know about Francis and Antonio, the next he did. Francis had apparently told him the night of the semi-formal, over text. ( _Almost as bad as Facebook,_ was Gilbert’s only comment. Well, that and: _Jeez, is everybody in this school secretly gay?_ ) Gilbert spent most of his free time with Matthew and Alfred now, which Mikkel could tell was unprecedented from the expressions of the other grade tens when Gilbert made himself at home at their table. Mikkel hadn’t yet asked Gilbert about Matthew, but he wasn’t exactly _stealthy_ about it. Mikkel maintained that people here only thought they were direct. In reality, they danced around what they really felt as if it was a bonfire that might burn them.

“They’re not dating anymore,” Francis said one day. “Alfred and Matthew.”

Francis was intensely interested in the rumors that had been started by the dramatics between himself and Antonio—though Mikkel hadn’t heard anything much about them at all—and as a consequence he now knew every single whisper that bloomed on the grapevine.

“Why not?” Arthur looked across the cafeteria. “They seem pretty close still.”

“They’re still friends,” Francis replied. “It was a mutual thing. I think they only got together because they were the only gay boys in their grade at the time.”

“They came out to each other,” Arthur said. “Did you know that? Alfred said he was gay and Matthew said he was, too.”

Francis smiled, head tilted in adoration. “They are so sweet.”

Mikkel glanced between the two of them. “I didn’t know you two had kids.”

Francis pouted indulgently while Arthur elbowed him. “Oh, shut up, you.”

“Ow.” Mikkel rubbed his side. “Your elbow is bony.”

“Probably because it’s a bone.”

“Hm, probably.” Mikkel nodded to the boys on the other side of the room. “I bet they broke up because of Gil.”

Arthur and Francis exchanged glances. “They might have,” Francis agreed, rather wary. “I hope Gil isn’t stupid about it.”

“He probably will be,” Arthur said, ever the pessimist. ( _Realist, thank you._ ) “He’s never dated anyone but Liz. And look how _that_ went.”

“Mmm,” said Francis, pensive.

“Well,” Mikkel said, “at least he won’t throw it away on sex.”

Arthur and Francis both blinked in surprise.

“No, I can’t really see Matthew rushing into something like that,” Francis said.

“Gil won’t rush, either,” Mikkel assured them.

“Where is this information coming from?” Arthur asked, eyes narrowed.

“Little talks,” Mikkel said, and got elbowed again. “Hey! I bet you talk about me with Fran.”

“Well,” Arthur demurred. “That’s not. That’s. Different.”

“Uh-huh.” Mikkel nuzzled into Arthur’s hair. He never got sick of the coconut smell.

“I’m still suspicious,” Arthur told him, even as his eyelids drooped and Mikkel’s lips drifted down to his neck. “This is my suspicious face . . .”

“Mm-hmm.”

Francis cleared his throat, barely hiding his pain behind a smile, and they pulled apart sheepishly. “What did I tell you,” Arthur said, abruptly scolding, “about PDA?”

 _Your body says it loves it,_ Mikkel thought. But that sounded like something a crazy person would say. He really needed to find some outlet for all this testosterone. Maybe he should finally take Gilbert up on the offer to lift at his place. He’d never been into working out just for the sake of appearance—it took the fun out of it, when it wasn’t part of a game—but if it was taking the edge off, making he’d be motivated. Just—something. Because Arthur’s thighs in those jeans . . .

Mikkel chugged his chocolate milk. Hopefully he’d get brain freeze.

* * *

“Francis wants to be in the GSA,” Arthur said.

Mikkel didn’t say anything right away, because his mouth was on Arthur’s shoulder. Studying had become a very difficult endeavor. They had to keep the door open now, but even that did nothing to tamp down the temptation. He’d made it a personal rule that he wouldn’t displace any clothing, but even then he was still pressing his lips into Arthur’s shirt. He could feel his warmth through the cotton. Sometimes he felt him shiver, too . . .

“Stop that,” Arthur said, shrugging his shoulder away from Mikkel’s kiss. “I’ll sit somewhere else.”

“Noooo.” Mikkel slung his arm around Arthur’s waist. They were lounging on the floor, Mikkel curled around Arthur with his weight on his elbow. It wasn’t an entirely comfortable position to hold—especially with Arthur sitting cross-legged and leaning his weight back into Mikkel—but the closeness made it worth the pain. “Stay.”

Arthur tutted. “Did you hear what I said?”

“What did you say?”

“Exactly. This is what I mean. Neither of us can think when you’re touching me.” Arthur pushed himself to his knees, stretching his arms over his head. Mikkel tried not to stare at the inch of belly that flashed when he lifted his arms. He was so skinny, skinnier than Mikkel and way skinnier than Tino. Mikkel imagined Arthur with some fat like Tino had, a muffin top under his shirts and thighs that protested his skinny jeans and an even rounder face with those chubby chipmunk cheeks . . .

“What are you thinking about?” Arthur arched an incredulous brow. “You look drunk.”

“I am.” Mikkel sat up, stretching his arms too and flexing them until Arthur shook his head. “I heard you. Why does Francis want it now? Is he bored?”

“No. Well, maybe. But that’s not why.” Arthur let himself fall back onto Mikkel’s bed, bouncing a couple times before gravity settled him. “He said he wanted to stop hiding. He wants everyone to know who he really is.”

That, Mikkel could definitely respect. His first impression of Francis had been that he was shallow, too worried about his appearance, putting on the accent and the clothes and the hair to try and make up for his lack of personality. But he knew that wasn’t the truth now; Francis wasn’t trying to make himself better, he was trying to make himself palatable. He had the direct opposite approach to Arthur in combating his loneliness—where Arthur had pushed everyone away, Francis clung, doing everything in his power to make himself the favored one. Mikkel just tried to find a happy medium. He hoped he hadn’t jinxed it, now that he was actively putting thought into it. _Those are Arthur thoughts._ He smiled to himself.

“Just because he’s in the GSA doesn’t mean he’s gay,” Mikkel pointed out.

“No, but he doesn’t just want to be in the group. He wants to be in the presentation.” Arthur stared right at Mikkel with those huge eyes, the way he did when he was about to say something that had to be taken seriously. “He wants to tell the whole school his story. He’s going to come out to everybody at once.”

Mikkel let his eyebrows lift. “. . . That is very brave.”

“Mm,” Arthur agreed, his own eyebrows rising. “He said he’s doing artwork for his own PowerPoint and everything.”

Mikkel imagined Francis in front of the whole school, just as the young woman who’d told her story about being assaulted, his words overflowing with honesty and emotion, backed by a slideshow of his gorgeous artwork. Then Mikkel tried to imagine himself standing before everyone like that, and he actually felt his stomach flop a bit.

It wasn’t frightening to imagine Arthur standing up with him, though. If he had Arthur at his side, he was brave. He had to be. _For you._

“So . . .” Mikkel crab-walked over to the bed and sat down at Arthur’s feet. Then he regretted the goofy display, because Arthur was smiling and Mikkel was about to say something to stop it. “What will Toni think when he sees that?”

Sure enough, Arthur’s smile faded. “I don’t know. I don’t know if Francis thinks he’ll change his mind about everything, or . . .” He shook his head. “It’s hard to say. We’ll just have to wait and see, I guess.”

Mikkel rested his chin on Arthur’s knee. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur blinked. “What are you sorry for?”

“You just got your friends back, and now they’re all fighting.”

“They’re not _all_ fighting. It’s just Toni, and he and I were never the closest anyway.” Arthur’s fingers found their way to Mikkel’s hair, carding through it. “And don’t apologize to me. It’s not me who’s suffering, it’s Francis. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.”

Mikkel snuck a smile at him just as Arthur realized what he’d just said. “Don’t let that go to your ego too much,” Arthur warned, but he didn’t stop stroking his hair. _Mmmm_ was all Mikkel said to that. If Arthur could just touch him forever and never stop, he could die a happy man.

* * *

Mikkel had gotten the days mixed up, so it came as double the shock when Arthur nudged him as they stepped past the gym doors. “We’re not going to first period, remember?”

Mikkel looked past him. Alfred and Matthew and the rest of the GSA were already in the gym, fussing over the laptop hooked to the projector and putting up posters and ripping open packages of rainbow stickers. “Everybody gets one!” Emily declared, and stuck a rainbow to Mikkel’s cheek. Arthur ducked away from her hand like it held a knife instead of a glittery bit of adhesive. He took it, though, and put it on the back of his hand. Over by the laptop, Leon gave them a thumbs-up. He had been liberally coated in stickers; one fell off and Alfred kindly slapped it back onto his arm.

“Hey.” Gilbert clapped Mikkel on the back, startling him. “You wanna help with the bleachers, big guy?”

Mikkel turned around, but Arthur was already gone, joining Francis where he was standing in the corner. Mikkel smiled when he saw them hug and turned back to Gilbert. “Yeah, sure. Are you a member now?”

“He’s honorary,” Ludwig called from where he’d been struggling with a bleacher by himself.

“Be careful!” Gilbert said, jogging over with Mikkel at his heels. Gilbert swiped at his little brother. “You’re too young to throw out your back. You’ll need that soon.”

Ludwig actually landed a smack, but Gilbert just snickered. Mikkel elected to put himself between them, even though they both had more muscle. “Do you have any of this?” Ludwig asked at one point, and Mikkel said, “I’m trying not to use my back.”

“Oh,” Gilbert said, once they’d locked it into place. He pinched Mikkel’s (perfectly acceptable, thank you very much) bicep. “That explains it.”

The three of them would certainly have started wrestling—Mikkel already had Gilbert in the makings of a headlock—but just then Alfred exclaimed, “Huddle up, GSA!”

“That’s you,” Gilbert said, grinning.

“Don’t ever say _huddle up_ again,” Arthur said as they gathered near the laptop. Their PowerPoint was being projected on the wall now, showing a rainbow on the white-painted concrete. It wasn’t as clear as it would’ve been on a proper board or screen, but it was legible at least.

Alfred was grinning too bright to be shaken. Mikkel wondered for a second if this confidence was put on, but he could tell it wasn’t. Alfred was genuinely excited to stand up in front of everybody and talk about this. Mikkel wondered if he’d grow up to be an advocate, like the YouTubers Alfred often showed them in meetings. It was exactly the sort of bubbly, bright-colored vibe Alfred embodied. Mikkel felt himself smiling. Thinking about all these people as adults made things feel a lot more real. He might not be _the guy they’d never see again_. If he was staying with Arthur—this was Arthur’s home, for now.

Perhaps they could move somewhere. Perhaps Mikkel could bring him back to Denmark.

It was insane to think about things like that. It felt like a made-up story, and it also felt like the biggest headrush he’d ever had, even after the parties he and Berwald had been to.

“Okay,” Alfred said. “Is everybody good to go? They’re about to call everybody here.”

Nods all around. Ludwig, for the first time, didn’t look nervous. And, to Mikkel’s surprise, neither did Matthew . . . but that could have been because he was paying more attention to Gilbert, who was smiling at them all from the bleachers.

“One last time,” Alfred said. “We start with definitions, then go into Fran’s story, and we finish up with all of us doing the message about welcoming. Sounds good?”

More nods. Francis took a deep breath, and Arthur gave him an encouraging look.

“Okay. Cool. I don’t know what they say to end huddes. It’s, like, _break!_ right? Or, like, _go team!_ maybe?”

Now they all looked around at each other, at a loss. Mikkel was the only athletic one among them, and he didn’t know what Alfred was talking about. Not in English, anyway.

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t know why you started with the sports thing if you knew you couldn’t end it.”

“Listen, you gotta be spontaneous.” Alfred thought for a moment, then put out his hand into the middle of their huddle. “Let’s all say _go gay!_ ”

“Let’s not,” Arthur said.

“We could just say GSA,” Matthew pointed out.

Alfred glanced. Arthur shrugged. Francis looked like he might faint.

They all put their hands together and pushed them upward in unison: _“GSA!”_

“That’ll haunt me forever,” Arthur remarked, wiping his hand on his shirt as if he could get the cringe off it. Mikkel nudged him, but it was only Gilbert calling _Aw, you guys are cute!_ that had Arthur smirking again.

It took several minutes to get everyone into the gym. Emily and Alfred manned the doors, showering all who crossed the threshold in stickers. Mikkel didn’t want to listen to what people were saying, but he couldn’t help but overhear a few things. _GSA . . . gay . . . my cousin . . . we’re not in math . . . faggots . . ._ Mikkel’s head jerked, searching for the guy who’d said that, but Arthur heard it too and he was faster. He grabbed Mikkel’s sleeve, tickling his wrist with soft fingertips. 

Arthur looked up at him. Mikkel looked down at him.

He couldn’t be angry, as long as those green eyes were on him.

“This isn’t for them,” Arthur reminded him quietly. “It’s for the invisible kids.”

He nodded. This was for all the Arthurs who didn’t have a Mikkel. _Or a Francis or a Gilbert,_ he allowed. _But still._ A bit of an ego stroke never hurt anybody. _I came first._

The principal gave them a pathetic introduction—much shorter than the sexual assault lady, not that this was as somber a topic as that—and Alfred jumped in with the microphone in his hand. “Hello, everybody! I’m sure you all know me, ’cause I’m super popular, but my name’s Alfred and this is the GSA. I know you’ve heard of us, and the majority of you probably know what it stands for, but let’s just have a little bit of a definition, shall we?”

Mikkel scanned the bleachers from his place beside Arthur. Nobody was glowing with the blue light of a phone screen, at least. He saw a couple people twisted around to hear a whisper from someone behind them. But most of them were watching, more or less interested. Mrs. Kirkland met his gaze and smiled. He returned it, startled that he hadn’t been smiling already. Then again, he hadn’t been smiling very much lately.

Sometimes it felt like Mikkel was more bothered by Arthur’s friends than Arthur was. They _were_ Mikkel’s friends, too, but it wasn’t the same. Mikkel didn’t like all these dangling threads. He’d been the one to put Tino and Berwald together; they both confessed, separately, their feelings for each other and Mikkel sat them both down immediately and had them kissing right then and there. Patience was his weakest suit. And these were problems he wasn’t even supposed to know about, so how could he fix them? He couldn’t talk to Antonio about it. Even if he could, it wouldn’t solve anything. Antonio wasn’t the origin of the fire . . .

Mikkel stumbled into his bit, prompted by Emily’s pointed _ahem._ “You have probably heard _transgender_ and _transsexual_ used synonymously.” He saw Arthur stifling a smile; he never could pronounce that word with the emphasis in the right place. “In reality, _transsexual_ is widely considered to be an outdated term. It is much better to say _transgender_. It is also an adjective. You do not know a transgender. You know a transgender person.”

It felt a little disingenuous to be preaching things that he’d only learned himself a couple weeks ago, but at least he’d memorized the lines Emily had written (and Arthur had edited) perfectly. Hours of thought resulted in less than a minute of talking, then he was passing the mic to the next person. He breathed out slowly through his mouth. He’d expected more anxiety than this, since it was such a large crowd, but he actually found he preferred this to a classroom. Teachers had started grading on the amount of eye contact made, but you couldn’t look at everyone’s eyes with an audience this big. You couldn’t even see most of them, with the lights turned down. There was no intimacy from a crowd. He liked it. And it did help that he didn’t mind presenting in general; if Arthur had the silver tongue for getting out of playing sports in gym class, Mikkel was extremely gifted in convincing teachers to take a presentation over an essay.

Arthur was still trembling slightly beside him. Mikkel thought touching him might make it worse, so he settled for edging closer until their sides brushed. Arthur leaned into him, just a tad; he felt the fraction of his weight, and the warmth of him. He always got hot when he was nervous, and blushed when he was frustrated. Mikkel wondered if any emotion made Arthur cold. Sadness, perhaps, but it occurred to Mikkel that he had yet to see genuine sadness take over his boyfriend. _I never want to._ He crossed his fingers behind his thigh. _Please. Just let him be happy._

Arthur glanced up and smiled lightly.

Mikkel smiled back, with extra dimple to make up for the deficit.

Then it was time for Francis. Everyone leaned to watch him walk over to the laptop, head held high and shoes clicking confidently against the waxed floor. He didn’t give Arthur one last look, as Mikkel would have. He just clicked ahead to his first slide, a picture of a painting done in streaked rainbow and a black-and-white silhouette of someone with suspiciously wavy hair.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was softer than usual, thinning here and there, beginning to shake, but he didn’t speak too fast like Arthur had or tangle his words like Emily. He took his time—without letting his accent get thick as a cover—and everyone was listening now. “My name is Francis Bonnefoy. I’m sure a lot of you know me. I’ve spoken to most of you in class, or the halls, or the cafeteria.” A smile ghosted over his lips. “And in some . . . extracurricular activities.”

Now the seniors were smirking. The party crowd, Mikkel could only assume. He was part of that crowd, on the neighboring planet that Denmark had become. He wondered if Arthur would have ever spoken to him at all, if _he_ was the exchange student. He wondered if he would’ve even given Arthur the time of day.

“You probably know me as an artist, or maybe a fashionista.” Francis shook his head a little. “And maybe some of you already assumed what I’m about to tell you.” He clicked to the next slide. It was a painting of himself, small beneath a rippling rainbow flag. “I’m gay. I used to believe I was bisexual, but that was just a step in my journey. Now, after a lot of thinking and experimenting, I know. I’m gay.”

Some people were looking a little uncomfortable in the audience; a couple of them were the ones who used to get help from Francis in French class. If Francis noticed, he gave no sign of it. His voice wasn’t shaking now.

“The reason I’m telling you all this is that it would have meant a lot to me, when I was feeling confused and alone. I know some of you might have people in your lives who tell you it’s wrong to be gay, or bi, or trans.” Francis clicked to the last slide now, a painting of all the pride flags melding together; Mikkel couldn’t figure out how he’d done it, if it was watercolor or acrylic dripped. It was beautiful, regardless. Francis looked out over all of them, and something changed in his face. His voice thinned so it sounded hollow, he concluded, “Please believe me when I tell you. There is nothing wrong with it. Be yourself, and don’t ever let anyone shame you for it. Thank you.”

The gym echoed with applause at that, Mrs. Kirkland and several other teachers smiling proudly. Alfred took the microphone to give the finishing message that everyone was welcome in the GSA, _stop by anytime_ , but Mikkel barely heard it. He was watching a dark figure make its way to the bottom of the bleachers and storm out of the gymnasium. Francis was watching too; Mikkel saw the glint of stifled tears in his eyes. Beside him, Arthur shook his head slightly.

Something had to be done, but there was nothing they could do.

* * *

That night, when Arthur went upstairs with a call from Francis, Mikkel stayed in the kitchen and dried the dishes Mrs. Kirkland was washing. “Oh, you don’t have to.”

“I know.” He smiled at her and took gently took the dripping plate out of her hands.

She smiled back, but there was something off about it, a tinge of sadness. “Mikkel,” she said after a moment, still scrubbing, “I want to talk to you, but I don’t want to seem like I’m prying.”

Mikkel had wondered, before the presentation, if this might happen. “Pry all you want. I don’t have any secrets.”

Well, the fact that he and her son had practically dry-humped in the very spot they were standing right now was a bit of a secret, but some things were best left unsaid.

“I wanted to tell you I thought it was very brave of you and the GSA to get in front of everyone like that today. And you were very well-spoken. I would have given it a perfect grade.”

“Thanks.”

She rinsed the silverware and set them in the dish rack with a clang. “But I also wanted to ask you something very personal.” She hesitated long enough that the sink finished draining before she spoke again. “Is your family . . . supportive?”

Mikkel pressed his lips together, but even that answered the question.

“I just worry,” Mrs. Kirkland went on rather hurriedly, “that you won’t be returning to a safe environment. There isn’t much that I can do, but—I hate to think of it . . .”

“No, they wouldn’t hurt me.” His parents were not physical people. He was taller than them both, anyway. He was pretty sure he could overpower them, if need be. “And I have gay friends. They’re not mean to them. Plus, if they did kick me out, I could just stay with Tino and Ber. They would take me.”

Mrs. Kirkland watched him now, pity and respect warring in her eyes. “Do they know about Arthur?”

Mikkel opened his mouth but no sound came out. So he did have a secret, after all.

Mrs. Kirkland shook her head a little, rueful. “I understand that it’s a difficult situation. I don’t know what I would do, in your shoes. I kept my own relationship a secret from my parents for quite a while, if I’m honest.”

Mikkel smiled faintly. Not his real smile. He just didn’t know what else to do with his face.

Mrs. Kirkland smiled faintly too, and gave a little helpless sigh. “I wish I could give you some advice, even though I know you didn’t ask for it. Just the teacher in me. Or the mother, perhaps. But you and Arthur are living in a world I really know nothing about. All I can offer is my support.”

“That’s all you need to give,” Mikkel told her kindly. “And love.”

Now she really smiled. “That, I can do.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you need only to ask.”

His mother had never said anything like that to him. He nodded, averting his gaze so she wouldn’t see the tears starting to build in his eyes. “Thank you very much.”

He thought she might hug him, but she didn’t, just gave his shoulders a squeeze. “You go on,” she said. “I’ll put the dishes away.”

* * *

Much to Arthur’s dismay, P.E. was one of the few classes that went two semesters instead of one. Mikkel didn’t say anything when he complained about it, but since the weather had recently insisted on staying snowy and cold Mikkel was glad to be able to run around. He didn’t know how Arthur could be content to sit around all day at school, then all night at home. Mikkel always volunteered to shovel snow off the step and driveway, even when it was Arthur’s turn. _A mutually beneficial agreement,_ Arthur called it. Gilbert just couldn’t believe Arthur wasn’t getting fat.

“I have to train twice as much this time of year,” Gilbert said one day while they were doing a twenty-minute run. They’d been getting harder and harder as the year went on: in September they were running one minute and walking four, and now it was the reverse. Well, that was the goal. Arthur walked the lot of it and settled for getting a lower grade because of it. _No hard feelings,_ Mikkel had said, _but I’m going to run._ Arthur wasn’t fussed. Actually, Mikkel was pretty sure he liked the view.

“It’s because he doesn’t eat anything,” Mikkel told him. “In the winter especially. He lives on tea and raisin cookies.”

Gilbert shook his head. “That must be it. That, or my metabolism just sucks. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, either. Most of your body doesn’t work right.”

Gilbert shoved him just as they sped up to a jog again; they both stumbled forward messily, laughing at each other. Then Gilbert jolted forward again, hard enough that he almost had to catch himself with his hands. “Jesus—”

Antonio was suddenly beside them, looking straight ahead as he kept pace with them.

“You trying to start something?” Gilbert demanded.

“Nope.” Antonio glanced at him with dark eyes. Mikkel couldn’t even remember what he looked like when he smiled. “Not with you.”

“Then don’t touch me.” Gilbert jogged faster. Mikkel sped up to join him without looking at Antonio. He didn’t have time for bullshit like that. He had no patience for _good_ things—seeing past negative actions and forgiving them took effort he didn’t see any reason to put in.

“So you guys aren’t talking,” Mikkel said after a moment.

“Not since he got with Emma. I tried talking to him once and he was—well, like that.” Gilbert rolled his eyes, puffing now that he was pushing himself to go faster than he was used to. “It’s just drama. We’re not preteen girls. I’m sick of that shit.”

Mikkel nodded but didn’t say anything. Francis was convinced it was more than just drama, and Arthur believed him. Mikkel had too, until now. If all this was just Antonio looking for attention . . . Mikkel admired Gilbert’s self-control.

It was tested again on the way back into the changing room. Arthur was already in one of the stalls; Mikkel was walking beside Gilbert, listening to him brag about his latest deadlift weight. One second Gilbert was walking and talking—the next, he was falling against the sinks. There was no pause. Gilbert and Mikkel both saw Antonio’s reflection in the mirror. Gilbert spun.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” he demanded, barely an inch from Antonio’s face.

Guys were crowding in the doorway, eyes wide, eager to see a fight.

“I wanna know when doing gay shit became cool,” Antonio replied, a cold tone doing nothing to hide the fire in him. “I thought you cared what your father thought about you. You think he’s gonna be happy to know you’ve been helping the GSA and fondling some boy in grade ten—”

 _“Don’t.”_ There was no space between them now. Their noses could have brushed. Gilbert’s voice wasn’t a voice, it was a growl. “Don’t fucking talk about Matthew, or my father, or me. I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re a goddamn asshole now. Just because your life sucks doesn’t mean everyone else has to deal with it, Princess.”

Somehow, Antonio’s eyes got even darker. It was a good thing Mikkel had been in fights before, because otherwise he wouldn’t have caught that split second before action. He jumped in, wedging himself between them and pushing them apart.

“Let’s not get suspended,” he said, glancing quickly from Antonio to Gilbert and back again. He didn’t like having his back to Antonio. “Just forget about it and go to class.”

“If you hate each other that much,” added Arthur, watching warily from a few feet back, “you’re not worth each other’s time, anyway.”

Gilbert glared at Antonio. Antonio glowered back. Then, slowly, Antonio turned and slunk away, pushing past the crowd at the door.

“Alright,” Arthur said, “clear out. Stop gawking.” He turned to Gilbert. “. . . Alright?”

Gilbert hesitated a second, then nodded, rolling his shoulders until they relaxed. “Yeah.”

Arthur turned to Mikkel, and there was a question on his face. Mikkel wanted to put his arms around him, but he wouldn’t do it in public, even if most everyone had left. He just offered his hand. To his surprise, Arthur actually took it. It was difficult to tell, but Mikkel could feel it: a slight tremble to his hand.

Antonio was lucky he skipped the rest of the week.

* * *

And then, almost without warning, it was Valentine’s Day.

“With an N?” Mikkel said. “Are you sure?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Am _I_ sure about how to spell something?”

Mikkel got down on his knees. “Please forgive me.” He bowed down, hands on Arthur’s feet. One sock was green, one was black. He had to put effort into the disorganization; Mikkel had seen him mate the socks randomly the last time he took his laundry back to his room.

“Oh, I suppose I cou—stop tickling me, you bastard!”

It was one of those holidays that didn’t really mean anything; they still had to go to school and all the stores and things were still open. Mikkel received three valentines at lunch, from Alfred and Matthew and Emily. (Arthur gave her a look that she ignored. Gilbert mimed claws at him.) Francis only gave them an apology. _I wanted to do something special for you all, but I guess . . . I haven’t been feeling very lovey lately._ They’d all assured him that they didn’t mind. _You’ve been too lovey all your life,_ Arthur told him. _It’s about time you scaled back a bit._

Arthur didn’t mind kissing on the bus now, so long as tongue didn’t get involved. Mikkel kissed each one of his fingertips, then all of his knuckles, then his wrist bones. Arthur took Mikkel’s hands and gave them the same treatment. Mikkel kissed the top of Arthur’s head. Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“I could climb on top of you,” he said.

“Please do.” Mikkel smirked.

Usually Arthur flirted right along with him, but when they weren’t doing it to the amusement of Gilbert or Alfred, it was different. Just a speck of fear would come into Arthur’s eyes; then he would smirk, sometimes, and change the subject, always.

“Or I could just rip your head off.”

He didn’t have to; Mikkel bent down when Arthur gently grabbed him so he could kiss the top of his head. And that was a pleasure in itself, because Arthur made a show of pretending to spit. “All I got was fur. Your winter coat is too thick. How much hair do you need?” Then he was combing through Mikkel’s hair in a search for scalp, which tickled like nothing else and had both of them giggling, though Mikkel knew Arthur would testify in a court of law that he did not, under any circumstance, giggle.

Mikkel figured it best to wait until supper had been eaten, even though it was a difficult couple hours. When they were finally upstairs again—in Arthur’s room, they preferred it in there now—he was so focused on trying to think of a line that wouldn’t sound silly that he didn’t hear Arthur the first time he spoke.

“Mick.” Arthur waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you in this room with me mentally too, or just physically?”

Mikkel blinked. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

“Yes. I said you can just go ahead and do whatever you’re thinking about doing.” Arthur’s confidence stuttered a little and he hastened to add, “So long as it’s PG.”

Mikkel smiled. He didn’t need to say anything to Arthur. The words weren’t the important part, anyway. So he stepped past Arthur, reached to the very top shelf of his closet, and took out a box of chocolates shaped like a heart.

“How long has that been up there?” demanded Arthur.

“A week,” Mikkel replied. “I figured you wouldn’t see it, if I put it behind everything.”

“I feel harassed.” Arthur sat on his bed, scooting backward until he was in the middle of it with his legs crossed. He held out his hands. “I will take chocolate as a peace offering.”

Mikkel placed the box in his grasp with great importance. “Here you go.”

Arthur picked at the plastic until both their patience had expired and Mikkel handed him a pair of scissors. Arthur stabbed at the seal with a little too much gusto, Mikkel thought, but there was no blood so all was well. Arthur flung the plastic wrap to the floor in pure disdain and at last slid the top off the box. Thirty assorted truffles and creams sat before them in their sugary splendor.

“This is an obscene amount of chocolate for a human to eat,” Arthur informed him.

“Maybe,” Mikkel said. Someday he’d tell Arthur about the things he and Berwald used to eat. “But not for two humans to share.”

Arthur considered that, then lowered a hand to pat the mattress beside him.

Mikkel hopped on and Arthur said, “Good Lord, don’t send me flying off of this thing.” Mikkel grinned and sprawled at his side, legs hanging off the bed. He picked up a truffle drizzled in dark chocolate. “I think I should feed this to you.”

“Do you think so?”

“I think so.”

“What if I bite your fingers off?”

“It is a risk I’ll have to take.”

Arthur smirked and gave the obligatory nips at Mikkel’s fingers, but when the chocolate went in his mouth it was only soft lips that brushed Mikkel’s skin. Arthur chewed, and chewed some more, and finally he swallowed and said, rather raspy, “That was toffee.”

“Oh, was it?” Mikkel glanced at the top of the box, which had a labelled map inside. “Oops.”

Arthur’s mouth warped as he tongued the stuff stuck in his teeth. “I think,” he mumbled, “you should get me a glass of water.”

“Good idea.” Mikkel silently scolded himself for not thinking of it as he bounded down the stairs two at a time. Arthur generally avoided sweets— _not because I don’t like them, because the opposite_ —so of course all that sugar would be an assault. And now he had toffee all stuck in his teeth . . .

Mikkel liked Arthur’s teeth. That one might’ve been even creepier than liking that he was small. They weren’t pearly white like Francis’s, but they were almost perfectly straight thanks to the money Mrs. Kirkland had spent on them. _It wasn’t just braces, I had full headgear. I had to, otherwise I’d grow teeth straight into my head like those wild pig things._ Mikkel’s were just straight enough that he hadn’t had to deal with any of that; his parents would definitely have paid for it, though, what with his mother’s insistence that he always look _presentable,_ whatever that meant. But Arthur’s teeth were—cute.

_I should have put that in a card. Happy Valentine’s Day, you have cute teeth. Can I kiss you now?_

“Oh, hello, Mikkel,” Mrs Kirkland said, drawing him from his thoughts. She pulled a handful of green grapes out of the fridge and stepped over to the sink to rinse them. “I didn’t hear you on the stairs.”

Mikkel wasn’t sure how that was possible—he wasn’t exactly light on his feet—but he just offered her a medium-sized smile and reached up to get a glass from the cupboard. He filled it with the jug from the fridge. Apparently nobody drank tap water here, even though Arthur claimed it was _probably perfectly fine._ The town water did taste pretty chemical-y, in their defense. And it was costly, or so people said. Mikkel hadn’t realized how many tiny things he took for granted—and he hadn’t realized he _would_ realize that, coming to a country like Canada.

He turned around with filled glass in hand and startled a little: Mrs. Kirkland was standing there with her grapes, watching him.

“I just wanted to remind you,” she said, “there’s a test in history tomorrow.”

Mikkel stared at her.

“So.” She popped a grape into her mouth, but her eyes stayed serious. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Mikkel’s eyes widened. She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, once he could speak again. He didn’t dare ask what she meant. He didn’t want to know.

She nodded and, perhaps to prove she could occasionally show mercy, she left the room first. Mikkel tried to hurry up the stairs as quietly as possible. A good thing, too, or he might not have heard his phone going off in his room. It wasn’t a text tone, but the ding from a Skype message. It had to be at least eleven o’clock in Denmark right now. _Why?_

He ducked into his room, hoping Arthur wasn’t in some sort of sugar coma. He thumbed his password in awkwardly with his single hand. It was a message from Tino, saying he’d just gotten back from his date with Berwald and _could we please have a little mini date with Arthur, pretty please, we want to meet him!_

Mikkel opened his mouth as if he was in the middle of a conversation, torn. He carried both the phone and the glass of water into Arthur’s room. Arthur had eaten two more truffles since the first and practically snatched the glass out of Mikkel’s hand. He downed three quarters of it at once—Mikkel tried not to stare at his shifting throat—and lowered the glass, watching him with sated eyes and wet lips. Mikkel focused on his phone, even though it took a Herculean amount of effort.

“Tino just messaged me,” Mikkel told him. “He and Ber want to meet you. Over Skype.”

Arthur’s easy expression—not quite a smile, but close—faded instantly. Panic sparked in his eyes. “Why do they want to meet me?”

“Because they’re my friends. And you’re my boyfriend.” Mikkel sat beside Arthur on the bed again. “I’ve met your friends.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“ _Yes._ You can’t go to that school without meeting my friends.” Arthur’s free hand came up toward his hair, but he didn’t touch it. “I don’t know what they look like. They don’t know me. God knows what they’ll . . .”

“They’ll what?” Mikkel could have patience for this. It wasn’t an insult to his friends, he knew. It was just Arthur. For him, Mikkel could do it, and _it_ was anything.

Arthur stared, caught in his own words, in his own mind. “I . . . Well, I . . .” He shook his head. “They won’t like me. I’m not likeable. It’s a waste of their time, meeting me. Just tell them I’m saving them the horror.”

“You are not horror. And you are likeable.” Mikkel had thought Arthur was past this, but apparently not. He leaned over to nuzzle at his neck. “I like you a lot.”

“Because you’re crazy.” Arthur pushed Mikkel away by the shoulder, but gently. “I still don’t know why you like me.”

“Because you’re funny,” Mikkel told him. “And you’re kind, and you care a lot about other people. Sometimes you care too much. And you’re so smart. You know more words now than I will in my whole life. And your voice when you read makes me want to kiss you.” He smiled. “Most things you do make me want to kiss you. Or hold you. I like that you’re holdable. You’re perfect for hugging.” He didn’t want to focus too much on physical things, though. “And you’re . . . fierce. Or ferocious. You don’t run away when you’re scared. You fight for what you believe in.”

 _“Stop.”_ Arthur put both hands over Mikkel’s mouth. He could see tears glinting in his eyes. “Stop. Stop, stop, stop. God.”

Mikkel kissed his palm, gently. Arthur didn’t remove his hands. He just closed his eyes, but a tear still fell. It left a dark spot on the comforter. They sat like that for several moments before Arthur’s eyes opened again.

“First of all,” Arthur said, but his voice was thick-and-thin. He cleared the rasps out and started again. “First of all. I don’t know where you got the fighting for beliefs bit. I’m a high school student. I don’t fight anything. And don’t say the GSA. There’s nothing brave about that. Not really. It’s not a fight for me. _My_ parents aren’t homophobic. I don’t have to hide it. I have this luxury. My mother is a teacher. We live in this nice house, we have all sorts of nice things.” His voice had a few wobbles, but his eyes stayed fixed intensely on Mikkel’s. “I don’t have any excuse to be so shit at everything. Not school stuff, _life_ stuff. I should be able to meet your friends without having a breakdown, and I can’t. And you like that? Can you honestly tell me that you enjoy being with someone who can’t even meet two nice people without ruining everything?”

 _“Nnnnn_ ,” Mikkel said against his hands.

Arthur dropped his hands in his lap.

“Not with your hands on me,” Mikkel replied. “But listen. You have to listen to me.”

Arthur looked at his lap, but he nodded.

“I don’t like that you have to feel this way,” Mikkel said. “I wish I could make it stop. But that wouldn’t make me not like _you._ It’s not your fault you feel this.”

Whose fault was it, he wondered? Arthur’s father? Mrs. Kirkland? No one at all?

“It doesn’t matter,” Mikkel said. “The anxiety and the fear and the bad stuff. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re worth so much more than those to me. They couldn’t make me go. I’ll always stay for you. You’re worth it.”

More tears fell. Dark spots on Arthur’s jeans, on his sleeve. He wiped them away, but they kept coming. Mikkel had never seen someone cry so silently. He wasn’t sure if they were happy or sad tears. He thought both.

“I love you, Arthur.” Mikkel slipped his hands beneath Arthur’s face, gently tipping it up until he could see the bright, reddened eyes. Arthur sniffled, and Mikkel’s smile tasted bittersweet. “All I want from you is for you to believe me.”

Arthur inhaled without trouble, but the exhale broke him. He shuddered through it and shattered into Mikkel’s arms, not sobbing, just trembling—so hard it felt like he’d been outside in the cold. Mikkel held him close and rubbed his back and his arms, trying to bring life back into him, trying to kindle the flame. _It’s okay. I love you. It’s okay._

It felt like an hour passed before Arthur spoke again. His voice was a bit raspy, and small. “I’ll meet Tino. And Berwald. If you still want to.”

Mikkel smiled into his hair. “I’ll ask him.” He reached for his phone, still holding Arthur against him, and sent a text even autocorrect couldn’t fully save. But Tino always knew what he meant—they wouldn’t be friends, otherwise—and he came back a moment later saying he and Berwald would just take a second to get ready. ( _I’m so excited!_ )

“They’ll call in a second,” Mikkel said. “Are you sure it’s okay? I can say no, if you change your mind.”

“No.” Then Arthur sat up in alarm, feeling at his face. “Wait, am I disgusting?”

“You’re not disgusting.” He fixed a teary smudge of eyeliner on Arthur’s cheekbone. “Your eyes are just a little puffy. That’s all.”

“God, can you tell I’ve been crying?” Arthur blinked a couple times and winced. “Well. At least they’ll know outright that I’m socially inept.” His eyes flew wide. “Is my—”

Mikkel’s phone rang, the screen lit by the call. He grabbed Arthur before he could protest, scooting them both backward until their backs rested against the wall.

“You look beautiful,” Mikkel said. He kissed him, for good measure.

Arthur was smiling faintly, a tad rueful, when he pulled back. He leant into Mikkel. “Okay.”

Mikkel accepted the call and held his arm out so they were both visible on the camera. “Hallo!”

And there were Tino and Berwald, Tino waving ecstatically on Berwald’s lap, Berwald watching over Tino’s shoulder with the laptop screen reflected in his glasses. It felt like too much heaven, to have his best friends and his boyfriend in the same room. To have all his favorite things in his hands. It felt like breaking a rule in the best possible way.

“Hi!” Tino said, and Mikkel was suddenly aware how thick his accent was in English. “Are you Arthur? We hear good things about you!”

Thank goodness, Arthur was smiling. It was a tiny smile, but it was there. If he couldn’t resist Tino’s charm, there was still hope for him yet.

“I’m Arthur,” agreed Arthur. “And you’re Tino, right? Unless you’re Berwald . . .”

Tino giggled, delighted. “No, I am Tino. This is Berwald.” He patted his boyfriend’s chest. “Say hi, Ber.”

“Hi.”

Arthur’s eyes widened a little at the rumble that struggled to fit through the phone’s tiny speaker. Mikkel couldn’t stop grinning if he tried.

“I’m sorry, too,” Tino said, “if I say wrong. Mick is best at English.”

“No,” Arthur said quickly, “your English is fine. You can talk in Danish, if you’d rather, and Mick could translate—”

“That’s okay. We need practise.” Tino smiled. “Has Mick taught you Danish?”

“. . . Skål,” Arthur said, so shy Mikkel had to kiss his temple.

Tino had his hands over his heart now. “You are _cute._ I’m so happy you are happy, Mick. And you, Arthur. Mick has been very alone—”

“Tino.” Mikkel shook his head, smiling reassuringly at Arthur. “It’s just the English. Don’t worry.”

Arthur gave him a dubious look and turned back to Tino. “How alone?”

“Well, he has no girlfriend since last year—”

“But that doesn’t mean I was _alone_ ,” Mikkel interrupted. “I had you guys. And other friends. And besides.” He was looking at Arthur now, because the loneliness he’d felt was nothing compared to the isolation Arthur had inflicted on himself. Sure, he’d felt insecure and upset and even jealous of how happy Berwald and Tino were together. But he’d never been truly alone. Lonely, but never alone. And now: “I’m not lonely anymore.”

Mikkel had never seen a softer smile on Arthur’s face. He had to kiss it. It was a grey area of PDA, with their audience, but Arthur didn’t protest even when Mikkel smoothed a hand over his hair and cupped the back of his head. By the time they pulled back, Arthur’s eyelids were heavy and Mikkel’s mouth tasted like toffee.

On the screen, Berwald looked a little uncomfortable and Tino was smiling uncertainly.

Mikkel smirked. “There,” he said in Danish, so there’d be no trouble for both of them to understand him, “that’s revenge for the pair of you constantly sucking face in front of me.”

Tino stuck out his tongue, but both he and Berwald were smiling, Berwald much fainter than Tino of course. Arthur looked between them, one eyebrow arched slightly. Mikkel kissed the tip of his nose. “An old battle was just won.”

“Oh, I see.” Arthur picked up a chocolate and offered it to him. “Congratulations.”

Tino teased them about wanting some chocolates for himself, and Berwald teased him about how he’d already given him plenty of things to eat that day, and Arthur teased them both with sarcasm that they didn’t really understand but laughed at anyway, and Mikkel basked in the glow of it all and marvelled at how his three favorite people could make the chocolate barely sweet at all in comparison.


	8. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to the one who actually had to drink that xP

The problem was that they were never, ever alone.

Classes and the halls were the broadest of worlds they co-existed in. Here, they could talk to each other if they were close or quiet enough, and they could share glances if nothing too solid stood between them, but that was as intimate as things could get.

The cafeteria was the second degree. Francis and Gilbert sat with them, and the occasional guest appearances of Alfred and Matthew or Lovino and Feliciano. If Feliciano was there, Ludwig was too. Sometimes they had more people than the _popular_ tables, which was a rather meaningless moniker now that Francis had gone AWOL and sat with whoever he damn well pleased. (Arthur, usually. An ego boost, always.) They could only get away with under-the-table touches or quick-snuck kisses without raising too much attention.

Then the bus, and the bedroom. No one looked at them in either location, not really. Sometimes someone glanced over from the seat across the aisle. Sometimes Mrs. Kirkland came up to ask Arthur a question, or to offer the last of the apple pie, or to tell them to go to bed. Sometimes Tino and Berwald called them on Skype. But mostly it was just the two of them, enjoying each other’s company without _enjoying_ each other.

And that was becoming harder and harder to contain.

Arthur tried to remember those earliest days in September, when he’d first met Mikkel. Yes, he’d thought he was attractive, but there was none of this all-consuming, hand-shuddery desire back then. When Arthur actually focused on how much he wanted Mikkel, now, sometimes he thought he might faint. It was kind of freaky. He hadn’t brought that tidbit of information up to Mikkel yet, for obvious reasons.

_Hi, thinking about you fucking me makes me want to faint. Does that sound super Victorian to anyone else? Good thing you’re bisexual, right? Ha._

Ha.

They had talked about it a _little_ , though, and that was good. They’d made the agreement about the First Time. No pressure. But still, it itched under Arthur’s skin—and he wished he knew what _it_ was. Lust? Not exactly. He didn’t think so, anyway. It felt bigger than lust. It felt like . . . like he wanted to do something. ( _Not like that._ ) It felt like he wanted to do something that would change things.

It did occur to him that he sounded like a sentimental idiot. As if his life would end when he got under the covers with somebody and he’d emerge as an entirely new person the following morning. Reborn, just add lube. But there was a bit of truth to it, maybe, possibly. He hoped. Surely, if he could get over this hurdle, he wouldn’t have such terrible self-esteem?

Now that _really_ sounded like idiotic sentiment.

Because at the end of the day, at the end of everything, he knew Mikkel loved him. That knowledge was, genuinely, enough. He didn’t understand the _why_ , and he might never, but he knew the _what_ and the _how._ It made him feel warm and fuzzy inside, tickled, touched, all that trash. It was happy ending material.

But they couldn’t have a happy ending. Mikkel was leaving. Arthur was staying.

Sex couldn’t fix that. In fact, if they did have sex, it might just ruin it. Or _it_ would ruin the sex, in retrospect. How would Arthur feel about himself in ten years’ time, knowing he’d given his virginity to some guy in Europe who probably had a wife and kids and never thought about him anymore?

Then he thought about the fact that virginity was not a physical object you just handed over to someone or lost between the seats of your car. It was actually just a construct of society, the big deal everyone made about it. Who cared about all that anymore? He hadn’t taken a pledge. Obviously. Sex was sex was sex. The first time was a learning experience, nothing more, just like with anything else. There was no need for all this fucking _production._

But also:

_I want to give my virginity to someone who loves me._

“Arthur.” Mikkel gently tapped the tip of his nose with his finger. “You are staring.”

“I’m thinking.” Arthur curled his finger around Mikkel’s. They’d both let Feliciano paint their nails last week, and Arthur had already picked most of his off. He hadn’t realized how much he fidgeted and picked, until he had evidence of it. At least he didn’t bite his nails like Francis used to.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Arthur smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

Mikkel was already smiling, but he did it wider. “Your mum said it on Tuesday. I was waiting to use it.”

One of Arthur’s favorite things about Mikkel was the way he carried his words. He did not love them deeply, as Arthur did, but he held on to them and sought them out over long-winding journeys, and he presented them to Arthur like a knight before a king.

“Thank you. Twenty points.” Arthur tugged Mikkel’s hand over to his mouth. He’d recently discovered that flexing Mikkel’s fingers back smoothed the wrinkles out of his palm and left it smooth as silk. He liked tracing the deeper lines with his lips. Mikkel liked it too, or at least he gave that impression when his eyelids drooped and he smiled at Arthur like he was the empty plate after Mikkel had just eaten the last piece of apple pie.

“Cheating,” Mikkel eventually said.

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t tell me what you were thinking.”

Arthur cupped his own face with Mikkel’s hand, resting his chin on Mikkel’s palm. Mikkel’s thumb rested on his philtrum like a moustache. Arthur felt like maybe he smiled too much. He also felt like Mikkel didn’t care, so Arthur could not care too.

“I was thinking they don’t make pennies anymore.”

* * *

Antonio continued to be a non-presence. He didn’t even glare across the cafeteria anymore. He just sat with Emma, talking to her brother and their druggie friends. Arthur had no patience for people like that. It was one thing to be a stoner who would most likely drop out of school and end up working on a boat or in a trade anyway. It was another thing entirely to be smart, to have plenty of money and opportunity, and _still_ want to throw your brain away.

Antonio had money and opportunity, too. But he was also a good guy. The speed of the transformation occasionally took Arthur off-guard when he thought about it. Maybe that was a warning sign. Maybe that was a cry for help. Antonio wore an awful lot of leather bracelets on his wrist . . .

He wasn’t Arthur’s responsibility. He’d removed himself from being anywhere _near_ Arthur’s responsibility. And still it fucking nagged.

“See,” Mikkel said. “I told you you’re kind.”

“No, I’m not. If I was kind, I’d do something about it. Kind is based on actions. I’m just _nice_ at best, and even then. Ask anybody in school and they’ll tell you a different story.”

“Oh,” Mikkel said dubiously. “You’re all talk. Bark and no bite.”

“Ten points. But you’re still wrong.”

And round and round they went. Arthur felt like all his thoughts were stuck in a loop now. The wanting, the inability, the lingering, the longing. Justifications never stuck. The only thing _stuck_ was Arthur. Maybe that’s what the _it_ was he wanted. An end to this loop. Something to yank him out of suspended animation. The arrival of whatever he was waiting for.

But he didn’t want that, because the end of this, the place he landed when he was finished floating up here in the clouds, was an airport. Waving goodbye to Mikkel. Never seeing him again. Returning to this little town. Coming back for his final year of high school with Gilbert and Francis. Graduating. Leaving for university. Probably never seeing Gilbert or Francis again, either. Making new friends, maybe. Maybe.

He could start a new self after that. If he could get through that final year of high school. If he could walk in these halls and sit in these chairs without feeling like his insides had been scooped out and flown across the Atlantic. Just thinking about that now made him feel sick to his stomach.

That’s why Mikkel didn’t think about it, he knew. It felt like dying.

Or maybe Mikkel really was that stupidly optimistic.

Hope had never been something Arthur excelled at.

Francis was learning the art of being unhopeful. He didn’t give Antonio any looks, either. He never talked about him. He wasn’t giving Arthur tearful texts or inconsolable calls at three in the morning anymore. He was, as far as Arthur could tell, throwing himself into his artwork. He’d filled half of his studio with canvases, the last time Arthur was down there. All he talked about were his latest projects, the way he was blending these colors by painting them onto the paintbrush with a smaller paintbrush and _it’s beautiful, but it’s not quite right, I don’t know what I’ll do to finish it._ Mikkel was more use to him than Arthur for those talks. Arthur just nodded and asked about different techniques and nodded again when he barely understood what Francis was talking about.

To his credit, Francis also asked Arthur about his own art. Arthur had begun to write, slowly but surely. He hadn’t done more than a couple hundred words. He wrote in handfuls. Writing long stretches required time without distraction, and he would always prefer Mikkel’s company to solitude. He’d spitballed a little with Mikkel and Francis, but he didn’t want them to take anything too seriously. He didn’t want to take anything too seriously himself. He wanted this thing stirring in his head, in his heart, to remain as it was for as long as possible. He wanted light sketches, not firm brushstrokes. He wanted it to be as intangible and magical as it felt.

“People can’t read it,” Francis told him, bemused, “if you don’t write it.”

“I’m not writing it for people,” Arthur replied. “I’m writing it for me.”

He’d only ever written for himself. He’d had no one to show his writing to, before. He certainly wasn’t presenting his mother with the nonsensical, erotic musings of Incubus and Incubus’s Boyfriend. He’d just written those because he was lonely, horny, bored. This new, shapeless thing he was working on felt different. He wasn’t lonely and bored anymore. He was arguably more horny now than he had been before, but it wasn’t about the sex. It was about . . .

_What’s your story about?_

He didn’t know yet. He just knew how it felt.

Like sadness. Like hope.

* * *

March Break found them at Gilbert’s place. Ludwig was gone on a city trip with Feliciano and Lovino— _he’s gonna be holding a whole lot of bags,_ as Gilbert said—and Officer Beilschmidt was busy working, gone before dawn and back home after Kirkland suppertime. So there was no need to hide: Matthew joined the group outside of school for the first time.

“Hi,” he said when he and Arthur ended up in the kitchen at the same time. “Sorry. It’s just kinda weird, seeing you in real life. You look different, sort of.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but he knew what Matthew meant. Matthew himself seemed a bit like a fairytale creature with the backdrop of the school behind him. Unspeakably anxious, hiding in his hoodie like a turtle in its shell, whispering in his fleece-soft voice. But here, in the masculinely homey context of the Beilschmidt kitchen, Matthew didn’t seem so unfathomable. He looked, Arthur realized finally, even more comfortable than Arthur felt.

“You do, too. In a good way.” He held the fridge door open. “Want something out of here?”

“Yes, please.” Matthew pranced over like a cartoonish burglar and plucked a can of Coke. “Thanks.”

Arthur got a Coke for Mikkel and some chocolate milk for himself. That box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day had opened the floodgates. Arthur was trying to limit himself to only chocolate that came in bottles. It wasn’t that he was necessarily worried about getting fat, or worried Mikkel wouldn’t appreciate it. It was just that he had enough problems with his self-image as it was, and he really didn’t want to potentially add more.

Then again, he did have a memory of the very first gym class they had after elementary school, when they had to change their clothes. It was the first time he’d ever taken his shirt off in front of someone who wasn’t family. A boy on the other side of the changing room had snorted. _Nice pecs, Arthur._ Arthur had changed in a stall ever since. That boy had dropped out of school last year, but still. His legacy lived on.

Too small. Too big. And Mikkel’s voice, louder than the rest in his head: _You fit perfectly._

“You said something, didn’t you?” Arthur asked. “Sorry. I’ve been thinking too much lately. What did you say?”

“It’s okay,” Matthew assured him. “It wasn’t anything important.”

“What did you say?”

Matthew ducked his chin, but gave a little smile, pleased. “Gil wants to play Truth or Dare.”

“Of course he does.”

They were still gathered in the basement despite the empty house, because the living room had carpet that Gilbert didn’t want to have to clean if somebody spilled something. The basement floors were just painted concrete, which would have been freezing cold if not for the in-floor heating.

“This floor is more expensive than the one upstairs,” Arthur remarked, handing Mikkel his Coke as he sat down on the sofa beside him.

“Don’t be _such_ a smartass,” Gilbert said, and Francis choked on his yogurt-covered raisins. Gilbert turned to him in concern. He was the only one drinking beer. “Are you dead? Do you need five back blows?”

 _“Firm,”_ Arthur said. There’d been a presentation on basic first aid earlier in the week. They got in their giggling now. “Five _firm_ back blows, I think you’ll find.”

“Gil knows about firm,” Mikkel agreed, not to be outdone.

Gilbert pointed at both of them in warning, but Francis’s choking had turned to laughing so Gilbert relaxed. He put his arms around Francis and Matthew and looked right at Arthur. “You almost caused the death of Fran—”

“Indirectly,” Arthur interrupted.

“Indirectly,” Gilbert allowed, “caused the death of our dear friend Francis, so you will be the first. Truth or dare?”

Arthur had a feeling Matthew was quietly perishing of a heart attack, because Arthur himself was. He didn’t want to say _truth_ and be mocked and thus set a precedent that _truth_ equaled _pussy_ , when he felt fairly certain no one would mock _truth_ when it came from Matthew’s lips. And if he got this out of the way, he could say a couple truths afterward and nobody would fuss. So he preemptively surrendered to peer pressure and said, “Dare.”

“Hmmm.” Gilbert eyed him thoughtfully with those pale eyes. “I dare you to shotgun a can of beer.”

“How about no,” Arthur said.

“You can’t say no to a dare!” But Gilbert was grinning. “That’s the whole point of the dare.”

So much for setting a precedent. This one was valuable, too. He was not morally opposed to alcohol, but he was morally opposed to drinking for the first time whilst in the company of people who were not Mikkel and only Mikkel. “Dare something else.”

“Yeah? Fine. Gimme a second.” Gilbert stood up and went upstairs. They all listened to the sound of several cupboards opening and closing—or perhaps the same cupboard multiple times, but Arthur doubted it—as well as the refrigerator. Then the distinct sound of a spoon clinking in a glass as it was stirred through something. Francis offered Arthur an apologetic smile, and Arthur just shook his head.

Gilbert returned with a can of beer in one hand and a glass of some dark substance in the other. “Okay, Kirkland,” he said, kneeling in front of him to proffer the two options. “Here are your choices. You can drink this beer, or you can drink this special concoction.”

“Concoction,” Mikkel echoed quietly. His voice wasn’t as gravelly as Gilbert’s, but it still sounded better. He said as many letters as he could—sometimes ones that didn’t even exist.

Arthur observed this concoction. It filled the glass and was approximately the color of misanthropy. It smelled of milk and ketchup and the bottom of a compost bin. It had slopped a bit onto the rim of the glass, and something grainy was caught there in the liquid.

He glanced at Gilbert. “Is there alcohol in it?”

“Nope. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You will,” Francis murmured behind him.

“Everything but alcohol in it,” Mikkel remarked under his breath.

Arthur took the glass before he could regret it. “It’s _cold._ ”

Gilbert grinned. “I could stick it in the microwave for ya.”

“No, no.” Arthur held the glass up to the light but its contents were thoroughly opaque. “God. Alright. But if I throw up, I’m doing it on the carpet upstairs.”

He tipped his head back and drank it. He saw Mikkel wince in the corner of his eye. He didn’t taste it, at first. Then there was the milk. And the bitterness. And more bitterness, and lots of sour, and he knew if he took a breath he wouldn’t be able to start again so he focused on the lines of the ceiling and chugged the whole goddamned glass. The last swallow was thick and oddly sweet, and only when he lowered the glass to gasp for air did he realize it was chocolate sauce.

_Well, now I won’t want chocolate ever again, so this solved one problem._

_And oral can’t be worse than that._

_So, two problems. One and a half, at least._

“Holy shit,” Gilbert said, clapping. The others were applauding, too. Mikkel looked queasier than Arthur felt. “I would’ve let you off from just a mouthful of it.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Arthur said. He held the glass out to him. “You should lick it clean.”

“Is that your dare?”

“Why the hell not.” Arthur licked his teeth. There was a burning sensation. “Was there _mustard_ in that?”

Gilbert snickered. “Yeah, maybe. Among other things.”

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Mikkel said, hurrying to the stairs.

“How could you tell?” Matthew asked, awed. “I can’t believe you drank it. I didn’t know you could chug.”

“Because I have three older brothers,” Arthur replied. “Who are all worse bastards than your boyfriend.”

Now Matthew turned pink, but he didn’t protest the title. Neither did Gilbert. They both just sort of smiled at nothing. Francis looked fondly at them both. Arthur looked fondly, a bit, at Matthew, but he had no fondness for Gilbert in that particular instance.

Mikkel gave him his water. Arthur didn’t chug it. He would’ve liked to rinse out his mouth, but he just calmly sipped it. Water had never tasted better . . . once he’d swallowed a few times first.

To his credit, Gilbert did indeed lick the glass clean, at least what his tongue could reach. Matthew and Mikkel both cringed, but Francis delivered them all from evil: “This proves the French palate is superior.”

“That’s one thing it proves,” Gilbert agreed, thickly. He hacked a bit and cleared his throat. “Alright.” He turned his wicked grin on Mikkel. “Truth or Dare, Mick.”

Mikkel shifted against Arthur’s side. He seemed to have recovered from the sight of the concoction—or perhaps it was the smell that had turned him green—but he still hesitated before he responded. Arthur couldn’t be sure if he was saying it just to look tough or because he felt like he owed it to Arthur to suffer as well, but whatever the reason he replied, “Dare.”

Gilbert rubbed his hands together, gleeful. He could look just like Alfred, when he tried. Matthew most definitely had a type. “How much would you say you weigh, Kirkland?”

“I wouldn’t say,” Arthur replied.

Gilbert opened his mouth, then closed it and looked at Arthur, taken aback for a second. None of them could watch that without cracking up, but Gilbert just swiped a _oh nevermind you_ hand at Arthur and addressed Mikkel. “I dare you to bench press a hundred and thirty pounds. He can’t be heavier than that.”

Mikkel didn’t hesitate now, hopping up and stretching his arms out. “I don’t really know how to bench press.”

“I’ll spot you.” Gilbert led them all over to the gym half of the basement. Most of the equipment looked like torture devices to Arthur, but he did recognize the bench at least. He watched Gilbert select the appropriate plates and slide them onto the bar. They didn’t look heavy in Gilbert’s grasp, but Arthur knew his body and knew it was not featherlike. He was pretty sure he’d never done a successful chin-up in his life. Mikkel wasn’t weak, but he also wasn’t _German_ . . .

“Have you done this before?” Arthur asked, snagging his finger in Mikkel’s belt loop.

Mikkel smiled down at him. “No, but I’ve spotted Gil.”

“But—” He wouldn’t nag him. Just. “Please don’t throw your back out.”

Gilbert spiked his eyebrows at them. Mikkel stuck his tongue out at him and gave Arthur a peck on the forehead. “I won’t. I’m the god of thunder.”

He straddled the bench and lay back beneath the bar. He fitted his hands around it, adjusting his grip a little. “Just once?”

“Just once,” Gilbert agreed, his own hands on either side of Mikkel’s. “I’m not asking the god of thunder to break a sweat today.”

Mikkel smirked. “Asshole.”

Arthur wondered, briefly, if Mikkel and Gilbert threw curses at each other and drank beer and talked about girls or boys when they were alone. There was always that stereotype of bros hanging out. Arthur and Francis could hang out together as guys, but it was a different species entirely to the guys Mikkel and Gilbert were.

Then Mikkel was lifting, and the time for introspection ended and the time for _look at his arms_ had begun.

Now Arthur understood why biceps and triceps were considered different muscles, because they were indeed two very different individuals who were the best of friends and did the most beautiful work together. And, also, pectorals. Those had arrived. They were welcomed by all. Fans gathered teary-eyed in the streets. Rose petals were thrown. World peace was had.

“Exhale,” Gilbert said.

Breath puffed out of Mikkel’s lungs and all of those muscles who had just come to town _flexed_ and the bar clanged back into its nest. Mikkel sat up and Gilbert slapped him on the back. Francis gave Arthur’s back a much gentler pat.

“Exhale,” Francis whispered.

Arthur had to inhale, first. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He hoped his heart was still beating, otherwise all this breathing was a waste.

Mikkel stood, smiling down at Arthur. His cheeks had a bit of pink to them that wasn’t there before. “It’s still easier to pick you up.”

Arthur opened his mouth with full intentions of saying _do not pick me up in public_ and with his mental justifications being _I cannot handle it and I will get emotional and that cannot happen among this group of people warm and accepting individuals that they are it’s not the world it’s me just have mercy for once_ but of course Mikkel was not a mindreader in this instance. And this time he didn’t pick Arthur up like he had in September. He knelt down and pushed an arm beneath Arthur’s knees and wrapped the other round his shoulders and he _tipped him sideways_ and held him like they were newlyweds.

“Wow,” Francis said, admiring.

“Aww,” Matthew said, adoring.

“Man,” Gilbert said, “you’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Mikkel gave no response to any of them—except a smile in Francis and Matthew’s general direction—and instead simply led the way back over to the couches. He sat down without releasing Arthur, who had decided at this point to just let himself be held, because it felt so fucking wonderful. He didn’t put his arms around Mikkel’s neck or nuzzle into him like a besotted child, but he let himself be held. _Partial surrender to happiness._ He looked at the floor and focused on not smiling too much. But he also felt Mikkel’s warmth and aliveness pressing insistently against him, and that was such a lovely thing he made space for it on the shelf in his heart next to birdsong and unicorns and typewriters.

“Okay,” Mikkel said. Arthur felt it before he heard it. “Matthew Williams. Truth or Dare.”

The full name delighted Matthew more than it should have; Arthur began to think perhaps the people he’d seen around Matthew and Alfred were there for the latter, not the former. “Um. Truth, I think. If that’s okay.”

Gilbert set down his beer—he was drinking the one he’d offered to Arthur—to sling his arm around Matthew’s waist for a supportive squeeze. Matthew smiled.

Mikkel smiled, too. “I will make it easy. Are you in love?”

Matthew ducked his chin, the picture of the shy virgin, and his eyes found Gilbert. Gilbert was watching him with the same amount of warmth in his eyes, and—to Arthur’s surprise—the matching brightness of a question. Matthew’s eyes said: _I am, are you?_ Gilbert’s eyes said: _I am, are you?_

“Yes,” Matthew replied, without looking away from Gilbert. Gilbert’s smile was so soft, Arthur could just about forgive him for making him drink the concoction. He wondered if it was ever a face Liz had prompted. He couldn’t imagine it. She wasn’t the type of person to require that level of softness.

_Am I?_

No. Right?

Really, he could handle anything, except himself.

 _We’ll work on it,_ Mikkel had said.

Arthur twined their fingers, tucked beneath his ribs. He didn’t want it to be too obvious in front of Francis, the only one here without someone to have a moment of romance with.

But then Matthew turned his smile on Francis and asked, “Truth or Dare, Fran?”

The nickname was tentative, and Francis regarded Matthew warmly. “Truth, mon ami.”

“Okie doke.” Matthew’s eyes gleamed; it didn’t take much to make him feel welcome. Arthur envied that ease into belonging, that willingness to believe you were accepted rather than just tolerated. “What about you? Are _you_ in love?”

Arthur stifled his wince, but Mikkel couldn’t by the feel of it. Gilbert’s face was struggling not to contort with nervousness. So Matthew had escaped knowledge of the Francis and Antonio nightmare. Probably Gilbert just hadn’t wanted to invade Francis’s privacy, in the same way Arthur hadn’t. There was something Arthur was glad he hadn’t had to wrestle with: the etiquette of how to introduce the more distasteful elements of his friends to a newcomer to the group. He was glad, for a whole new reason, that Mikkel had come first.

Despite all of it, Francis just smiled. It was a softly wistful smile, a bit rueful, sad like an old sepia photograph. Sad like happiness that would never be felt again, because it had happened so very long ago. “No,” he replied, his voice faded just like his smile. The nostalgic sorrow that had lost, but had not been left wanting. “Not anymore.”

The room absorbed this. Matthew, unaware of its meaning; the others, smiling gently at the conclusion. Francis hadn’t had a serious, mournful talk with Arthur in ages. This was why. He was done with it. He was, at last, putting his resolution into action.

“Your turn, Fran,” Gilbert reminded him.

“Oui.” Francis set down his drink elegantly. “It is.”

* * *

Most of their break was spent at home, performing that old miracle of Spring Cleaning with Mrs. Kirkland, teaching Mikkel how to bake cookies (a mess), studying for the tests they’d be coming back to, finishing up the extra credit essay Arthur had due in a token attempt to boost his bio grade, and binging the ten-movie series (thirteen, if you counted the spinoffs) that had come from Arthur’s favorite books. _It’s no Ragnarok,_ Mikkel said at the end, _but it was good._ He’d sat through them all without much in the way of squirming, but it helped that they had regular intermissions where Arthur paused so they could get snacks, drinks, bathroom breaks, and Mikkel could bother Arthur for a synopsis of what they’d just seen and how it tied in with everything else. Arthur felt a bit offended, the first time he asked, but then he watched Mikkel while Mikkel watched the screen. He wasn’t glassy-eyed or slack-jawed. He was intently following the lines, only looking away when he whispered to Arthur for the meaning of a word. ( _It’s, no—It’s not English, it’s just a made-up word. It’s magic. Oh, okay._ ) Mikkel enjoyed Arthur’s explanations far more than the films. _Everything makes more sense when you say it._ Mikkel cheered when the herd of fabled unicorns turned up for the climax of the last movie, startling Arthur out of the tranquil triumph of the scene. _Enhjørninger!_ Not a perfect viewing companion, by any means, but Arthur gave no complaints.

On Saturday, Francis dropped by to take them to the mall. Neither of them had money to waste on clothes, but Francis waved it off. “We’re not here to shop,” he claimed. “We’re here just to be here.”

So they were here through all of the stores in the mall, from the clothes to the pets to the furniture to the appliances. They found themselves in a store Arthur had only been in once, with his mother. He was pretty sure it sold no solids whatsoever. Shelves upon shelves of overpriced goop, for all of one’s goop-related needs. Some of it was makeup, he thought, and some of it was for taking makeup off. Most of it was probably anti-wrinkle. Arthur tried to imagine a version of himself who cared enough about wrinkles to buy a fifty-dollar pot of cream that would fit in the palm of his hand.

He was thinking about this and looking at that and so he was doubly distracted when he walked right into Mikkel. “Sorry. Coming through.”

Mikkel laughed almost nervously, and only then did Arthur realize what his boyfriend was so interested in. Here, not even in a back corner of this fancy old-lady face-goop store, was a section of three entire shelves stocked with different types of lubricant. Some were water-based. Some were silicone-based. Some had bottle caps. Some had pumps. Almost all of them had _pleasure_ on the label.

Arthur stared. And he stared. He also stared.

_Mikkel’s hands. His thighs. His zipper. That line of hair that led down . . ._

Arthur cleared his throat.

Mikkel also cleared his throat. And he grabbed one of the bottles. “I think we should buy this.”

It looked even worse in his hands. It was a real object, in his hands, with a real label in all its hyphenated glory. Water-based. Condom-compatible. No-drip. Long-lasting.

_Intimate Moisturizing Lubricant._

“. . . Oookay.” Arthur didn’t think he could bring himself to look at Mikkel, but staring at this bottle was so much worse. At least if the heat of his face burned this place down, the lube probably had enough water in it to put the fire out. “We can.”

Mikkel was smiling, but only faintly. Uncertain. “We don’t have to. If it scares you.”

“It doesn’t scare me.” This was the truth, at least. “It just makes me worse.”

Mikkel’s head tilted to one side. “What do you mean?”

Arthur sighed a bit, because this was one of those things that made him wish he knew sign language. “I mean,” he said, lowering his voice in case any nearby customers had their hearing aids turned up, “this is just one more thing I’ll think about when I—” Oh, the humanity.

“When you?”

 _Bastard._ “When,” Arthur said through his teeth, “I want you.”

Mikkel grinned a grin that could have swept everything off these shelves if he turned his head fast enough. “Then we’re getting it.”

Arthur squeezed his lips together and pinched them between his teeth. “Okay, do it. Quick,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

Francis was buying some sort of cream, and he insisted on paying for the lube too. “So I can get points. You can pay me back later.” Arthur kept waiting for him to make a joke, or quirk his eyebrows, or _something._ He hid a bit behind Mikkel, too, watching the cashier. He expected her to see the lube and look over at Mikkel, then at Francis, then at Arthur. What would she assume? But she just gave a three-meters smile at Francis as he took the bag from her and told them all to have a nice day. Francis and Mikkel repeated it back to her. Arthur thought it, but he couldn’t get it out.

They hid it under Arthur’s bed, in the hidey hole with his incubus notebook.

When Arthur finally got to sleep that night, all he dreamt of was Mikkel.

“I thought we just washed your sheets,” Mrs. Kirkland said when she met him on his way to the basement the next morning.

“Uh . . .” Arthur shifted the load in his arms. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

Her smile looked rather dubious, he thought, but all she said was “Make sure you put them in evenly.”

“I know, Mum.”

Going back to classes was a relief, if only for the distraction.

* * *

Toward the end of the month, a new, even bigger distraction popped up. Feliciano invited them all to his birthday party. It was one of those things that everyone was technically invited to, but certain handful of people received handmade invitations. Arthur and Mikkel were of this fabled few.

“Oh,” Arthur said when Feliciano handed them the little envelopes at recess. They must have been made with one of those fancy arts-and-crafts machines, with the glue and the bedazzling and the whatnot. It was a multi-layered little card, and every _i_ was dotted with a heart. He would be an excellent heir to Francis’s legacy, once they graduated. “Er, thanks, but I’m not really a—”

“Thank you,” Mikkel said over him, with the smile he usually reserved for dogs and babies.

“You’re welcome,” Feliciano chirped, and off he went to make merriment and rainbows.

Arthur put the invitation into his locker. “I’ll give you points for politeness, but you know I’m not into parties.”

“You’ve only been to one party,” Mikkel pointed out, still cordial.

“And look what happened.”

“You got a hot boyfriend out of it.”

Arthur could hear the grin in it, but he didn’t turn around. That giddy note in Mikkel’s voice removed all other thoughts from his head.

“Sociology,” Mikkel reminded him.

“Yes.” Arthur took the textbook out and shut his locker. Useless, because they hardly ever used it, but they still had to bring it along to every class. _Just In Case._ “Look. This party is going to be way worse than that one. Double the people, at least, and double the drugs, too, probably.”

It wasn’t that the Vargas brothers did drugs. It was that they were too nice and too disinterested in the well-being of others (Feliciano and Lovino, respectively, of course) to stop _them_ from doing drugs. So their grandfather’s trust in them wasn’t misplaced, but even Arthur thought the length of their leash was a bit much. The old man went away for weeks at a time on business trips or retirement trips or whatever they were to Italy, leaving Lovino to be the adult. Perhaps that was why he was the grumpy one now. In Arthur’s experience, his older brothers had never had any issue being the ones in charge. (Evil bastards.)

“We won’t do drugs,” Mikkel said. “And you don’t have to talk to anybody if you don’t want to. We can just go and see.”

Going and seeing sounded far less appealing than going _home_ and seeing nothing but Mikkel in the comfort of his own bedroom. “But what’s the point in that?”

Mikkel shook his head a little, fondly exasperated. “Just—to _see._ ” He brightened a bit with a new idea. “You want to write, don’t you? Maybe this can help. You need to live things to write things. Right?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him, but there wasn’t much darkness to it because he was right. He had precious little experience with . . . well, the world. He didn’t know if he’d ever write a scene with a party in it, but if he _went_ to a party maybe he’d get inspired for one. Who knew, maybe he’d get inspiration for a whole story to tell at the party. It was impossible to say what might happen there. Which was true for any experience and which had always been a terrifying statement . . . but he could see how it might be interpreted as exciting, too.

He let out his breath. “You want to go?”

Mikkel smiled. “Not without you.”

Arthur shook his head. “Alright, we’ll go. But only if Francis or whoever takes us agrees to take us home whenever we ask them to.”

Mikkel nodded, serious now. “I’ll make sure they do.”

Arthur didn’t say anything else, but he took Mikkel’s hand. It was hard to imagine someone who wouldn’t obey an order from his Viking.

* * *

Mrs. Kirkland had an appointment the next day, so they couldn’t take the car. She offered to drive them there, but Francis had already said he would and so they declined. Arthur made the mistake of mentioning it was a sleeping-over party, which opened an all new line of questioning from his mother. _Will there be adults there? How many people did you say were coming? There’s going to be grade twelves there? Are you sure you want to go?_ Arthur had assured her, rather loudly, they would not be staying overnight and showed her a text from Francis confirming he would have them home by two a.m. at the latest. _Or, earliest. Since it’s morning._

“Well.” Mrs. Kirkland’s gaze had gone to Mikkel. “So long as you promise to be safe.”

Arthur was tempted to point out that no one could promise something like that, but she wasn’t talking about semantics. She was talking about Mikkel standing between Arthur and anything that might harm him. And Mikkel had nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

They arrived at the Vargas house—which was big enough that it ought to have been called the Vargas _estate_ or something like that—around nine. Arthur wondered how people had the energy to be _starting_ something like a party this late in the day. _Drugs, probably._ Feliciano seemed like the sort of person to either conk out at eight-thirty every night or never sleep at all. Then again, Arthur’s assumptions on everybody else had been thus far proven wrong; who knew how far off he was with the Vargas brothers.

“We weren’t expected to bring a present, were we?” it suddenly occurred to Arthur to ask.

“No,” Francis replied as he painstakingly parallel parked in the driveway. This spot had apparently been reserved for him. It was in the middle of the loop, across from the fountain. Italians were big into landscaping, apparently. “Seeing people having fun is the present to him.”

Mikkel smiled, enthused by that, but Arthur just felt guilty. He wasn’t going to have fun, so he wouldn’t be gifting Feliciano. Maybe he should have brought along some scented candles.

Inside, besides the dozens of pink balloons, it was the full cliche of a mansion: the rounded foyer with its pair of symmetrical staircases that swept to the upper level, where a railing could be leant against to oversee anyone who might be walking in. There were some people standing up there, girls Arthur vaguely recognized who raised their glasses to either Francis because they knew him or Mikkel because they thought he was hot. Arthur had to look away from the girls, because he could just see them toppling over and breaking their necks. Was this the kind of mindset someone should have when walking into a birthday party?

“Hey!” Gilbert was suddenly upon them, smiling with his arms around Matthew and Alfred. Alfred, for some reason, looked a bit irritated with the arrangement. Arthur didn’t know if Gilbert was jubilant because he was drunk or because he was sober. “I was wondering when you guys would get here. Did you parallel, Fran?”

“I certainly did,” Francis replied, chin high.

“Did he hit anything?” Gilbert asked, eyes going to Mikkel and Arthur.

“Nope,” Mikkel replied.

Gilbert did pause for Arthur to insert something sarcastic, but he was too overwhelmed even to cover up how overwhelmed he was. So Gilbert just nodded and said, “Ah, better luck next time. Come in, don’t stand in the door.” Something occurred to him and he released the younger boys, grabbing Mikkel’s shoulder. “C’mon, you gotta see the stack of cans they’re making.”

Arthur no longer had to wonder: he could smell the booze on Gilbert’s breath. Mikkel’s smile started, but it faltered in the same second. He looked down at Arthur.

 _Don’t make him choose._ Arthur did his best to put on a smile. His face felt a bit lighter, at least. “Go on.”

Mikkel lingered, eyebrows drawing together. Unconvinced.

“Go,” Arthur insisted. “I’ll be fine. I’ll breathe and blink.”

“And walk and talk?”

“Those, too.”

Mikkel’s smile was more sure of itself now. “Okay. But—”

Arthur took Mikkel’s hand, took Gilbert’s, and put them together. “Take this man,” he told Gilbert. “Go forth to beer cans and revelry.”

Gilbert grinned, because these were the grand words of an Arthur who was Fine. “Go forth!” he agreed.

While he and Mikkel went forth, Alfred shook his head. “I expected this to be different,” he said. “Everybody was all hyped for it. But it’s just a bunch of people standing around, talking. They could’ve at least had a Wii or something kicking around. Even drunk idiots can play Wii bowling.”

Arthur doubted that. “Maybe you should get drunk,” he remarked. “Then standing becomes an exciting challenge.”

Francis and Matthew gave him disapproving looks, but Alfred just scoffed, oblivious. “Yeah, I guess. I’m not drinking, though. I’m Mattie’s ride home. Mom would sniff it right out.”

“Thank you,” Matthew said automatically. “Again.”

Alfred brushed off his shoulders in slow motion, smirking. Matthew giggled kindly at the display.

This wasn’t the place for them. These were children and responsible people at the same time. Neither of those things had a reason to be here.

Francis was watching him closely, too closely. “Come,” he said, twining their fingers. “We will walk and talk. Meet and greet.”

 _“Mingle,”_ Alfred said, waggling his eyebrows.

Arthur didn’t have the strength to protest. What was the alternative, hiding in the room with the coats and scarves? No. So he said, almost not-flat, “Okay.”

Into the house they delved. Shoegaze or dreampop, something that sounded like what surfers would get stoned and make out to, was oozing from two big speakers in the living room. At least Arthur thought it was a living room. Maybe it was just a parlor. There were couches all full of people and people standing near the couches talking to those people on the couches. More balloons, as well, hanging above and bouncing along the floor. There must’ve been kids from schools in neighboring districts here, because some of them were total strangers to Arthur. Almost everyone had something in their hand. A cup. A bottle. A can. A cigarette. A joint. A phone. As if being among all these humans wasn’t enough stimulation for their brains. They needed more. That was the difference: Arthur was surrounded by people who were after _more_ , and he was the only one thinking _too much._

Francis led his trio over to a small group in the corner, near a bookshelf that required its own ladder to reach the top two shelves. And it had such a ladder, attached so that it slid along like in the movies. Arthur was so enamored with this— _I want it, I want to live in a house that has this, this is so lovely—_ he didn’t even notice the people were watching him until Francis introduced them. They were grade twelves he knew from art class, all of them queer and artistic in one way or another. Arthur now knew that the amount of non-straight people in his school was in no way related to the amount of people in the GSA. Maybe he wouldn’t go back to it next year. Why did he go to it this year? Because he’d been there when it started? Because it was pathetic and one less person would make it more pathetic? Because he’d been hideously lonely and it was the closest thing he got to human interaction?

“Arthur,” he said. He didn’t offer a hand to shake. Neither did any of them. They were staring at him expectantly, though, so he added, “Kirkland.”

“Like Mrs. Kirkland?”

“Oh, you’re her kid, aren’t you? I kind of remember you now.”

“You never talk to anybody. Right?”

 _I’m talking to you, aren’t I?_ That didn’t seem very friendly. He was starting to get too—something. Too much. The music and the people and the smoke. He just wanted to stand here with this lovely bookshelf, but there were these people in front of it. There were too many people. None of them knew him. They were meaningless, fluff, chaff. _Why am I here?_

“He’s an artist, too,” Francis told them, smiling. His charm wasn’t enough to save this. “He writes.”

_No. No. God, no. Don’t do this to me._

“Oh yeah?” One of the girls raised a pierced eyebrow. “I write, too. Poetry. What do you write?”

He didn’t owe them any part of himself. In fact, they didn’t deserve it. He was reserved for Mikkel and his friends—Mikkel who had left him, and Francis who had just betrayed him. _Too much. You’re ruining this. You’re getting overemotional. They’re going to call you hysterical as soon as you leave. Leave now, before you dig your grave deeper._

“I’m gonna go,” Arthur told Francis, fast so as not to be argued with. “I’m gonna go look for a bathroom. I’ll be back.”

Normally, he would’ve ensured that his companion(s) would be in the same place upon his return, but he didn’t even stay long enough for that. He turned on his heel and made his way as straight across the room as possible, keeping his gaze fixed on the door. _Escape._ Into the hall, away, away. He was beyond tempted to run outside, but he knew he would cry if he went out there, and then what was he supposed to do, come back in here with red eyes and streaked eyeliner and pretend he hadn’t just bawled like a child? No. So he wandered the house, avoiding any doorways that had music or laughter leaking out of them. Probably one of them would take him to Mikkel, but he didn’t want to ruin his fun. _Please don’t be getting drunk._ He didn’t know if he could bear that tonight, his boyfriend becoming a stranger. Maybe he wouldn’t transform like Antonio. _But maybe he would._

Arthur found himself wandering upstairs. Not the main staircases out front, but a tight spiraling one, far down a hall. Was this a servant staircase? Or just here so you wouldn’t have to go all the way to the front stairs if you didn’t want to? Arthur climbed it and stood in the center, where he couldn’t see upstairs or downstairs. Here, it was like having his eyes closed even with them open. The party was still there, just muffled. He breathed in. He breathed out.

Just a little tremble to his chest. He could’ve made himself break down, if he tried. Similarly, if he thought too much about breaking down, he would cry. He dragged his hands through his hair, twice, then left them there, heels pressing into his temples. _What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why can’t I just fucking—_

“Hey. Kirkland.”

Arthur flung his hands down to his sides. The voice, deep, had come from above. He looked up. 

Lars was standing at the very top of the spiral staircase, leaning on the railing and staring down at him. He raised an eyebrow. “Were you coming up, or going down?”

_How do you know my name? Why do you care enough to remember who I am? Why are you talking to me?_

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Well.” Lars pushed off the railing like he had nowhere better to be, turning away. His voice wafted down. “If you come up, we have room to relax up here.”

Room to relax. Arthur thought this stairwell was a pretty good place to stake his comfort zone—the process had already begun actually—but it wasn’t exactly private. If Lars and his little group of seniors had a bedroom or something to themselves . . . well, half a dozen people was better than however many had been crammed into the rest of this place.

So Arthur climbed the remaining stairs. Lars was waiting for him, a few steps down the hall. He smiled faintly at Arthur, more of a twitch to his lips than anything. “I thought you came with Densen and Bonnefoy.”

Was it a senior thing to strip people down to their surnames, or just a Lars thing? Had to be a one-way street. He couldn’t imagine he answered the phone like that. _Van den Berg._ Wouldn’t that be kind of exhausting?

“I did,” he replied. “They’re—making merriment elsewhere.”

“Hm.” Lars led the way into one of the only open doors up here. Inside, it was just a bedroom looking like a hotel room. Big fancy bed, big fancy artwork of a forest with deer half-hidden in the bottom. It reminded Arthur of the drawing Mikkel had given him for Christmas. He felt a sudden rush of love for him. He wondered if this was what it would be like when he left. These emotions that hit him like a train.

No crying.

The bed was occupied, as was the floor near it and the pair of chairs either side of the window. It was the usual people Lars hung out with. Arthur saw Emma before he saw Antonio. A joint was in the process of making its way around the group, and Antonio had it now. He saw Arthur, but no complicated emotion passed over his face. No regret, no anger, no disgust. He just blew out the smoke and extended his arm.

Arthur made no move to take it, so Lars did instead, drawing off it. Arthur watched the paper burn. He wondered how they would ever get the reek out of this poor bedroom. Surely Feliciano’s grandfather wasn’t that stupid.

“Here,” Lars said, the words laced through his exhale of smoke. He didn’t even turn his face away; the cloud just bloomed out between them. He offered the little thing, pinched between finger and thumb. It didn’t look very impressive, this illegal-now-legal-later joint. He couldn’t imagine there was much left to be gotten out of it.

He didn’t even share water bottles with people. And they seriously expected him to take this and _puff_ or whatever the fuck it was called?

Because they didn’t know him. Nobody here did, except Mikkel. He had to find him. Right now.

“No thanks,” Arthur said. “You really seemed to enjoy that, you’d better finish it.”

Lars stared at him. “What did you come up here for, then?”

“You said _relax_ ,” Arthur reminded him. “Forgive me for assuming you might be referring to something other than marijuana. Won’t make the same mistake again.”

Somebody snorted behind him. Arthur almost thought it was Antonio.

Lars’s brow lowered on his eyes in a way that bypassed Arthur’s brain and went straight to his legs, which set to work in backing him out of the room. Lars stepped between him and the door. He stopped.

“What, are you actually mad at me? For not wanting weed?” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, so no one could see they were shaking. “I thought it was supposed to take the edge off. You’re nothing but edge.”

There was a bit of a laugh on the end. No one joined it. It died.

“C’mon, man,” Antonio said. Arthur risked a glance. He was pushing himself upright, using the bed for leverage. His voice was so harsh, he barely sounded like himself. “Gimme that, before it burns out. He doesn’t want it.”

Lars hesitated, then passed the joint to him. He had to lean to do it. The doorway widened. Arthur leapt.

A hand closed on his wrist in an iron grip. Arthur hid his wince thusly: “What the fuck do you think this is? Happy Time Rape Hour? Let go of me, for fuck’s sake.”

He would’ve liked to end that with a slap to Lars’s face for good measure, but that felt hypocritical. Also, he didn’t have the nerve. He was genuinely shocked he’d managed to get out all of that without sounding afraid. Maybe he’d saved up more anger from this party than he’d thought. _Good inspiration, indeed._

To his credit, Lars looked a bit impressed. But he didn’t let go. In fact, he held tighter. “So I’m a rapist, now?”

“Well, you’re not proving me wrong,” Arthur said, backing away. This was how ridiculous it was: they were standing at arm’s length, Arthur in the hall, Lars in the room. Antonio was watching with his mouth twisted. Emma was starting to stand up, too, saying, “Lars, maybe you should just—”

They would never heard what he should _maybe just_ do. In that moment, a new voice entered the ensemble.

“Arthur?”

Francis? Nope. Gilbert? No, Lars wasn’t even that lucky.

Mikkel grabbed Lar’s wrist. Arthur could _feel_ the rage radiating off him. “What the fuck?”

It sounded doubly profane in Mikkel’s accent. Lars’s hand released. Arthur backed off, far into the hall. All three of them watched the red hand print fade in on his pale, freckled skin.

Mikkel didn’t wait for an explanation. He just swung.

This definitely wasn’t _Ragnarok._ There were no helpful, swooping camera shots or closeups. It was just the pair of them slamming into the wall, then the wall again, then the floor, punching and kicking and rolling. There weren’t loud impact sounds. There was nothing visceral about it. They could have been fighting in a silent movie. Arthur had no way of knowing if the were actually hurting each other or not.

Then he saw Lars’s face, and the blood gushing from his nose.

 _“Mikkel!”_ Arthur dove for him, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling on him. “Stop. Stop! Do you hear me? Enough!”

At last, they fell apart, and it was like all the sound came back. Arthur heard them both gasping for breath, and Emma sobbing as she helped Lars stand up. Mikkel had to test his legs to be sure they’d hold him, but he got to his feet without assistance and glared at them all. Lars wasn’t even looking at them. He was painfully pinching his nostrils shut and snarling, thick, “Somebody get me something to bleed on, for fuck’s sake. This is a nice carpet.”

It was Antonio who left to get tissues or towels. Arthur pulled Mikkel out into the hall, to get them both out of his way. Antonio’s gaze flicked between them, and there it was: remorse, dark and crumpled on his face. He took a deep breath in but didn’t use it for words, just shook his head and hurried off down the hall.

“Hey, you found—what the hell happened to you?” Here was Gilbert, and Francis coming up the spiral behind him. Both their faces lengthened in shock. “Jesus, Mick. What happened?”

“Lars was being an asshole,” Arthur told them. “As usual. It was no reason to break his _nose_.”

“Holy shit,” Gilbert said. “Did you actually?”

 _“Yes!”_ somebody shouted from the room. Possibly Lars himself.

“Holy shit,” Gilbert repeated, delighted. His enthusiasm faded a bit when he neared. “I, uh, I’d get some ice on that eye sooner than later.”

Arthur looked up, startled. Mikkel was squinting with only his left eye. It wasn’t bleeding, but it did look sort of red and puffy. Arthur hadn’t realized Lars had gotten a good hit in. He edged closer to him, twining their fingers. Mikkel looked down at him. Arthur could see he was still hopped up on adrenaline, so he just reached his free hand up to touch his cheek for a moment. That would translate, through all of it.

Mikkel closed his eyes, letting out his breath slowly.

“I’ll get you a cold cloth,” Francis said. “Then we’ll leave.”

He vanished into a door down the hall.

“Oh,” Arthur said. “Shit. Toni’s in there.” Just what they needed, another fight breaking out. It would be the end of the world before they got home. But at least now he had a problem beyond himself to focus on. He started down, then glanced back. “Gil, can you—”

But he was already herding Mikkel toward the staircase. “Come on, big guy, let’s go wait in the car.”

Mikkel stared over his shoulder, eyes pleading with Arthur. Arthur nodded to him. _I’ll be right there._

Reluctantly, Mikkel went with Gilbert. Arthur practically ran to the door he’d seen Francis go into.

They were both there, dark and light in the golden glow of the lights over the mirror. Antonio had two rolls of toilet paper in his hand. Francis had a hand in the sink, running water over a face cloth. Their free hands were on each other. Francis’s on Antonio’s jaw. Antonio’s on Francis’s waist.

_Am I awake right now?_

They must have seen or heard the movement of him; they broke apart and looked at him, then away. Antonio lifted his hand to tuck a curled strand of hair behind Francis’s ear. Francis lowered his hand to touch the tiny cross hanging around Antonio’s neck.

“I know,” Antonio whispered, husky. “I’m sorry.”

Their foreheads rested together, for just a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Antonio said again.

Francis pulled away. He turned the faucet off, wrung out the face cloth, and joined Arthur in the doorway. Arthur saw the reflection of his smile in the mirror. “You have my number.”

Antonio’s smile was rueful, but it was there. He nodded.

Arthur was beyond words; he followed Francis downstairs, out of the house, back to the car in silence. _I thought you said. What happened to. Do you really think._ But all of those tasted bitter on his tongue. So he didn’t say any of them. He just sat in the back of the car with Mikkel, who had his head leant back against the rest and his eyes heavy lidded. Arthur pressed the cold cloth against the left eye. Mikkel made a soft sound.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Mikkel turned his head to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Arthur echoed. “I’ve heard enough apologies tonight. No more apologies.”

Francis sighed softly from the driver seat.

They sat in the quiet for a long sixty seconds.

“Well,” Arthur said, “I hope someone wished Feli a happy birthday for me. I didn’t get the chance.”

A pause. 

Mikkel’s mouth tugged outward. 

Francis’s head lowered a little.

Then, finally, they laughed. It was enough of a release that Arthur didn’t have to worry about whether or not all this was his fault. He just rested his head against Mikkel’s shoulder and closed his eyes against the bad of the night.


	9. April

Three weeks.

That was how long the principal decided to suspend Mikkel, for fighting. Never mind that the fighting didn’t occur on school grounds. Never mind that he was doing it in defense of his boyfriend. Never mind that Lars’s nose wasn’t even broken.

“No,” Arthur told him. “It’s not _wasn’t even broken._ It’s _thank God his nose wasn’t broken because if it was you’d probably be expelled._ ”

Arthur was good at sounding right. Mikkel knew it was true, this time, but he didn’t like it.

Mrs. Kirkland also didn’t like it. At Arthur’s suggestion, Mikkel hadn’t waited until the next morning. While Arthur brushed his teeth and scrubbed at his face until he couldn’t smell weed anymore, Mikkel swallowed his pride and went to Mrs. Kirkland’s door. He knocked lightly, with just the bones of his knuckles.

“Arthur?”

“No,” Mikkel said. “Me.”

He opened her door, even though it felt like the worst sort of trespassing. She was sitting up in bed on a comfy cushion made with arms, reading a book to the light of her bedside lamp. Not a hair out of place, even in bed. He hadn’t realized women still wore nightgowns.

“How was the . . .” She only had to take one look at his face. Even in the shadow where he stood, backlit from the hall light, the truth was written in swollen tissue and bruising skin. She slid a bookmark between the pages and slowly closed her novel. “Tell me what happened.”

He cleared his throat. Honesty. Bravery. She wasn’t even his real mother, but . . . _but_. . .

“I got into a fight,” he told her, all-at-once. “With Lars. I forget his last name. He’s Dutch, I think. I didn’t start it, I promise. I did it because he was trying to hurt Arthur. You can still see the mark on his arm, where Lars had a hold on him.” Mikkel grasped his own wrist, to demonstrate. “I didn’t mean to do it. I-I don’t like to be an angry person. But when I saw . . .” He shook his head. There were no words in English or Danish for the fury that had engulfed him then. “I’m sorry. I swear it will not happen again. I just . . .” But that was all he could think of to say, so he only echoed, “I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Kirkland observed him in silence for several moments. Her mouth got small, then pushed out, then got small again. Then she lowered her gaze and sighed. “And will Arthur tell me the same thing?”

 _Yes._ “You would have to ask him,” Mikkel replied. “Ma’am,” he added, because it sounded snarky without it in retrospect.

Mrs. Kirkland nodded, just once. “Alright. I’ll tell the principal about it, first thing tomorrow morning. You and Lars will both be called down, and I suspect you’ll speak individually and then together.” She picked up her novel again. “You might as well put it out of your mind, until tomorrow. Fretting about it won’t make the time go faster.”

But that was advice for Arthur, not Mikkel. He wouldn’t have any trouble getting to sleep tonight—not because of this, anyway. Arthur had put his head on his shoulder in the car, but he hadn’t looked Mikkel in the eye since the party. God, his eye was seriously starting to ache, as well. He’d have to put more cold water onto the face cloth stolen from the Vargas estate.

She slipped a finger into the book to open it to her current page, but paused when she noticed Mikkel still standing there. “Something else?”

Mikkel scuffed socked toes over the carpet. “I just thought. You might punish me for it.”

She blinked. “What would that punishment look like?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess that depends on what you think.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What punishment would your parents give?”

He shrugged again, but it felt stiffer. “I don’t know. My mother would take my phone. Maybe keep me in my room. My father might . . .”

But he didn’t want to say _hit. Hit_ wasn’t a word to say in this house, in this bedroom. Not after what had happened tonight. And it might not even be a true one, an accurate one. His father wasn’t an evil man. But he was not a man Mikkel wanted to turn into, either.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mikkel finished. “It’s up to you, now.”

Mrs. Kirkland’s chin lifted, just a tad. “Yes. Yes, it is.” She returned her attention to her book. “Go to bed, Mikkel.”

He felt a tiny smile on his lips, that little leap of happiness in his chest. He turned to go, but stopped when he heard the soft but pointed clearing of her throat. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Tell me,” she said, eyes dark with the shadow and the distance. She gave a false start, then asked rather wryly, “What does the other guy look like?”

He stared for just a second, startled. Then: “Worse than me.”

She nodded, gaze falling to the page, satisfied. “Good night, Mikkel.”

* * *

His grin lasted him down the hall, but he stowed it away when he got to Arthur’s door. It was slightly ajar. He knocked anyway. There were no words of welcome, but none of protest either. Mikkel pushed his way in.

Arthur was sitting just like his mother had been, his lower half under the covers, his upper half leant back against his pillows. He didn’t have a reading pillow, just a pile of regular ones. Mikkel still couldn’t get over what he wore to bed. He’d gotten new pajamas— _jammies_ —for Christmas, green-and-blue-and-white tartan on fuzzy flannel. It was too adorable. If Mikkel had known Mrs. Kirkland had bought the jammies, he’d have gotten Arthur a little pair of slippers to go with.

Was it normal for a seventeen-year-old boy to be attracted to his boyfriend when he was dressed like an elderly man?

“You’re probably mad at me,” Mikkel said.

Arthur glanced up in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

He started to shrug, but that felt like the wrong move. “Because I was violent.”

“I don’t care about that,” Arthur told him. “Not really. If you were Gil and we were out, I don’t know, somewhere, and some random guy grabbed me like Lars did, I wouldn’t care if he punched him. I’m not that much of a bleeding heart.” He rubbed at the corner of his eye; he’d missed a fleck of eyeliner. “But you’re not Gil. You’re not a citizen. You could get kicked out, if you do something illegal. Like assaulting someone.”

Mikkel’s words were stolen, not only from his mouth but from his throat and his chest. The reality had hollowed him out. He hadn’t even thought about consequences like that, and that was the worst part.

“I doubt he’ll press charges,” Arthur went on, “since he technically started it. And there were so many drugs and everything there. They won’t want police snooping. But still.” He levelled his solemn gaze on Mikkel. “I’m not mad that you hit him. I’m mad that it could have been the thing that took you away early.”

The fact that his voice didn’t waver at all made Mikkel feel certain that, while he’d been talking to Mrs. Kirkland, Arthur had been in the bathroom and his bedroom rehearsing these lines he had delivered with such measured calm. Mikkel wished, all at once, that his life was a movie and Arthur was the narrator. He’d never make bad decisions, if he had that voice as his guiding star.

“I’m sorry,” Mikkel said. “I know you don’t want apologies tonight, but I’m still sorry. For not thinking. But—just—when I saw him grabbing you like that . . .”

Anger. Hatred. Fury. Loathing. Rage. There weren’t enough words for it.

Arthur held out his hand and Mikkel went to the bed immediately, falling to his knees beside it like a penitent. Arthur stroked his fingers through Mikkel’s hair. Mikkel closed his eyes; the left one was mostly shut already. Arthur smelled like coconut and soap and toothpaste. The opposite of that party. Mikkel had thought he would enjoy himself there, but something about it was different than the parties of the past with Berwald. He wasn’t drinking, for one thing. It was very different to be sober with drunk people than to be drunk with drunk people. And without Arthur at his side, it was just . . . different. Not necessarily bad, just . . . He’d thought they could share it, and then he’d let himself get taken away as soon as they got there. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Once, he would have raced around a party like that, shouting and shotting, making sure everyone knew how wild he was. But that wasn’t fun anymore, when he knew Arthur would be standing at the back of the room, uncomfortable, judging, unable to understand the appeal of being loud with strangers. Arthur knew him so well. Mikkel breathed in the warm mint of him. Arthur was _clean._ The party couldn’t help but feel dirty in comparison.

“I hope you don’t hate me for it,” Mikkel mumbled. “For asking you to go.”

“I don’t.” Arthur smoothed his hair back again and again, smiling faintly each time it sprung upward. His voice ducked low; the bittersweet rasp went straight to Mikkel’s heart. “I was afraid. I thought I was going to have to scream for you.”

Mikkel wanted to crush: Arthur to him, Lars to the ground.

“You’ve been saving me for a while,” Arthur whispered. “But that was the first time you actually rescued me. Hopefully it’ll be the last, I’d prefer not to be a damsel. But.” He shifted over and leaned to kiss Mikkel’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Mikkel tipped his face up so their lips found each other. It was incredible, how different this was from so many of their past kisses; Mikkel was breathless with it. Arthur was so pliant, his lips so soft, parting for Mikkel without any coaxing. If Mikkel had climbed up onto the bed, he knew Arthur would lie back for him, spread for him, arch for him. Mikkel ached with it, with the knowing and the needing.

It was agony, but he pulled back. He stood up.

Arthur looked up at him, lit only by a shaft of hall light from the doorway. His hair was a mess already from its time against his pillow. His eyes were heavy lidded. He was tired, after all that. Mikkel didn’t blame him. It was part of the reason he loved him, anyway. The torn aesthetic of black-eyed anarchy on the outside, the faded coziness of unicorns and fluttering pages on the inside.

Mikkel bent down to kiss him, just once, chaste. “Godnat, musling.”

Arthur’s mouth was too asleep to repeat it beyond a mumble, but he did both words. Mikkel had to stifle his laughter into just a smile. He pulled the blankets up to Arthur’s chin. Without the ferocious energy he had when he was wide awake . . .

“You are cute,” Mikkel told him, under his breath. He gently swept mussed bangs to the side of Arthur’s forehead. “I love you.”

“You,” was all Arthur managed, barely a sliver of his eyes visible now.

Mikkel couldn’t believe he could have gotten himself taken away from Arthur tonight. This could not happen again. He wasn’t going anywhere. He gave one last brush of his lips over Arthur’s hair and left, shutting the door silently behind him. And when he did have to go, he was coming back. _No matter what._

* * *

The principal was not as kind as the Kirklands. Mikkel’s solo interview happened after Lars’s and was incredibly brief. _Did you start the fight? I guess, technically. Why did you start it? Because he was hurting my boyfriend. Why was he doing that? I don’t know. He was upset, I guess. So you could have spoken to him about it, instead of fighting him. . . . Yeah, I guess so. Alright. I would suggest you try that next time, Mr. Densen._

Being called mister anything by adults was never a good sign. He would much rather a direct insult than a backhanded form of respect. But he kept his mouth shut and let the principal do the talking when he and Lars were both back in the office.

_Based on the circumstances presented to me by you two and witnesses of this fight, I’m going to punish you both equally. You will not be welcome back into this school for three weeks. You will still be responsible for any schoolwork you have due during that time. I suggest you email your teachers and ask how they would like you to make up this work. Now. What should you say to each other?_

Mikkel couldn’t believe his ears. Well, some of it. The three weeks was laughable, in his humble opinion, but he could believe this stuffy principal would do that. But the last part? What were they, five years old? _Well, you acted like you were five years old,_ he could hear Arthur saying. Lars was glaring at him sidelong; his face was a bruised ruin, his nose swollen, but at least he could see out of both eyes. Mikkel had barely recognized himself in the mirror this morning. Even Arthur had winced when he walked out of the bathroom and saw him. 

“I’m sorry I almost broke your nose,” Mikkel said.

Lars’s eyes narrowed. Then, to Mikkel’s surprise, his lip tugged upward on one side. “Sorry I did that to your face. I guess I got a little carried away.”

He offered his hand.

Mikkel stared at him, his face, the hand. It felt like a truce. It felt like the closest a senior with an ego would come to admitting fault. Someone who put that much gel into his hair had to have a thing about appearances. Apologizing wasn’t cool. But neither was getting so upset about something a guy like Arthur said that he had to make things physical.

“Yeah,” Mikkel said. “I guess you did.”

He took his hand. Hard. Lars shook. Hard.

Lars led the way out of the office. He strode past Gilbert and Arthur without looking at them, car keys jangling in one hand while the other was already putting a cigarette into his mouth. Gilbert raised an eyebrow; Arthur lowered one. Then they both looked to Mikkel.

“Three weeks,” he told them.

Gilbert nodded. Arthur shook his head.

The bell rang before either of them could response.

“Fuck,” Arthur said, which surprised Mikkel a little. He usually didn’t bring out R-rated words before noon. “I’ll text you at recess.”

“And lunch,” Mikkel agreed, leaning down to give him a peck of farewell.

Arthur didn’t say another word. He scampered off, slipping between groups of people as the stampede gained momentum. Now Mikkel knew what he was cursing about; this meant he would have to navigate the halls unguarded for the next three weeks. Things would be back to the way they used to be. Mikkel felt a sudden, cold shot of fear in his heart. He hoped Arthur wouldn’t regress because of his stupid mistake. Then he gave his brain a mental shake. _Give him a bit of credit._

“I have a free first,” Gilbert said. “And I have the beater today, lucky for you.”

 _The beater_ had been a joint birthday gift back in January. Officer Beilschmidt had apparently told his sons that the car belonged to both of them and it was to be shared equally. Because Ludwig was too young to get his license yet, this meant that if Ludwig needed to go somewhere it was now Gilbert’s responsibility to drive him there. It also meant that, because it was a thirdhand piece of shit, it was Ludwig and Gilbert’s responsibility to keep it safe and functional. Their combined knowledge of cars was apparently enough to keep it going _most_ of the time.

Mikkel didn’t know anything about cars, but he knew they were supposed to start when you turned the key.

“Just give it a second,” Gilbert said. “It’ll be better behaved once it gets warmer out.”

Mikkel nodded, dubious. “You sure it’ll last that long?”

“Have _faith_ , jackass.” Gilbert turned the key in the ignition again and, this time, it choked and coughed its way to life. “Good beater.” He patted the steering wheel fondly. “See, you gotta be kind to it. Matthew knows, he always says encouraging words. The car likes him.”

“I don’t know if this counts as a car,” Mikkel replied as it lurched out of the student parking lot.

“You can always take those long legs of yours and walk home, y’know.”

“It’s a fine automobile,” Mikkel said, stumbling over the syllables a little. English had weird stresses. He patted the dash, just for extra credit. The cup-holding compartment above it began to rattle. Mikkel patted it again in several different places and levels of strength until he at last resorted to shoving the little latch down hard. It quieted.

Gilbert nodded, apparently satisfied with all this. “That’s what I thought.”

* * *

Three. Weeks.

Arthur provided the correspondence to Mikkel’s teachers. He brought home all the work Mikkel was supposed to do; that filled some of his days, though he quickly found that trying to focus on schoolwork without the context of school was a recipe for disaster. He had no idea how homeschooled people didn’t go crazy. He was in the house all by himself, all day long. Mrs. Kirkland hadn’t even taken his phone away. How was he supposed to keep himself on task?

The guilt helped, at first. He’d called his parents the day he received the suspension, and a week later he still couldn’t figure out how he felt about their response. He’d expected shouting, swearing, something explosive to fit the fight he’d gotten into. But they’d almost seemed . . . disinterested. His mother had shaken her head when she saw his eye. _You have wasted your face. Is that any way to show how grateful you are for it? You were given that handsome face, and this is what you do with it?_ His father had at least acknowledged that he’d gotten a good hit in. _Well, that’s something, anyway._ And they’d both scorned the suspension of three weeks. _We used to do worse and hardly get punished at all. If you’re both fine, I think it’s an overreaction._ Mikkel had listened to all this and come to the conclusion: _So . . . you’re not mad?_ His parents had exchanged a look, and it was his mother who said it: _We know you, Mick. We know you don’t get worked up unless you really care about something. We know you did it for that girl._

He didn’t tell them the truth. It hurt, that they thought they were so knowing when really they weren’t at all. It didn’t stab him through the heart; it glanced off his ribs, which was even worse, because the swordsman didn’t even know him enough to aim properly. If they were happy with what they believed, he wouldn’t shatter the illusion for them.

Someday. But not now. He wouldn’t give Arthur to them yet.

Three weeks, yes. He wasn’t sure how to bring up his boredom to Mrs. Kirkland without sounding like he was complaining, so he went with “Is there anything I can do for you? Around the house? Since I am here?”

It was as if she’d been waiting her whole life to be asked. She made him a list—which Arthur copied into a hand Mikkel could actually read—that filled an entire page with two columns. Most of it, to his delight, was outdoors work. He did the picky inside things first, on the coldest days of the month: taking down old trophies and photographs and ancient collectible dolls from a glass cabinet, dusting every surface, and returning the prisoners to their transparent cell. Spraying all the windows and wiping them until they squeaked. Sourcing a step stool to scrub the walls of both bathrooms, which were increasingly dusty the closer he got to the ceiling. Clearing out all the cobwebs from beneath the sinks, which was the opposite of the previous Tall Person work and was fittingly back-breaking with his legs smashing into the bathtub whenever he tried to move.

Then, the sweet freedom of yard work. The last of the leaves that had fallen before the snow had to be raked away, but he couldn’t touch the ones in the flower beds; they were a vital blanket, apparently, in the uncertain mornings when things felt a lot more like winter than spring. He cleaned out the eaves and washed the windows—from the outside, this time—and repainted the railings on the front steps. It wasn’t on the list, but he sourced a screwdriver from the junk drawer and repaired the broken flag on the mailbox. He picked up all the branches that had fallen onto the lawn, down to the tiniest twigs; anything to avoid the tedium of his Canadian history textbook. He would have climbed up onto the roof and done a patch job on a torn shingle he could see, if only he knew anything about shingles. Also, he would probably get ratted out by nosy neighbors. He saw the old lady across the street watching him more than once. He waved to her the first time, but when she didn’t wave back he decided he wouldn’t bother with her. She probably thought he was doing community service.

 _Well,_ he thought, brushing dirt from the gardening gloves that only barely fit his hands, _she’s not wrong._

Visits made the days go faster. Gilbert had a free period every other day this semester, so he turned up when he had no better way to kill eighty minutes. Once or twice he even brought Arthur over at lunchtime, so they could all dine together at the table. Gilbert was an odd presence here, but not an unwelcome one. One blissfully warm day Gilbert got out of his car and offered to help Mikkel carry the stepping stones Mrs. Kirkland had asked Mikkel to put out between the flower beds, but Mikkel had refused. “No,” he said, setting it down and walking with Gilbert to the door, “don’t help me. I don’t want the work to go quicker.”

“Yeah, don’t blame ya. Wanna sit out here? It’s too nice to go inside.”

So they sat on the front steps, in the sunlight. Gilbert had sunglasses on, so Mikkel asked, “Does it hurt your eyes?”

Gilbert shook his head. “Not with the shades. Do I look like a badass?”

“You did without the shades.”

“Awww.” Gilbert threw his arm around Mikkekl’s shoulders. “Wanna suck my dick, too?”

“Fuck you.” Mikkel wanted to grin, but the words were putting images into his head. Not of Gilbert. Of himself. And Arthur. And the kitchen, and the bedroom. If Arthur was on his knees, was he tall enough to reach? He must have been, right? If not, Mikkel didn’t mind sitting down. It would be easier on Arthur, anyway. Knees were hard to stay on for a long time. Not that it would last a long time, probably. Sometimes when they cuddled right before bed, and he kept the feeling of those warm touches, the soft _alive_ ness of Arthur against him, in his head—he barely had to touch himself and that was that. How was he supposed to handle the real thing?

“Speaking of that,” Gilbert said, because he was an evil bastard, “has anything happened yet?”

“I think you care more about my sex life than yours,” Mikkel remarked.

“Hey,” Gilbert protested.

Mikkel looked at him. Gilbert looked back.

“Alright,” Gilbert said, then raised his voice over Mikkel’s snickering, “alright, I’m just curious. You want me to talk about mine? I can do that. You’re looking at a guy who has officially had gay sex.”

Mikkel could just hear Arthur correcting him— _it’s not gay sex, it’s sex_ —but he was an honorary GSA member, so Mikkel let it slide. (Plus, it was pretty hypocritical of him to correct somebody else’s English.) “With Matthew?”

“Of course with Matthew.” Gilbert was doing a valiant job of not grinning his face right off. “But not, like. It wasn’t, you know.” He did something flex-y with his shoulders. “No penetration.”

Now Mikkel’s interest had been snatched. He hadn’t spoken to Arthur enough about the nitty gritty of sex to know what he was specifically intimidated by, if anything, but he’d just sort of assumed it was the penetration part. Mikkel didn’t blame him. It wasn’t the same as with a girl, like Gilbert had said ages ago—not that Mikkel was an expert in girls to begin with. It was . . . well, it was more dangerous, wasn’t it? Mikkel could hurt him if they weren’t careful. He wished he’d asked Berwald about it before. Maybe he could text him, ask for tips. Tino might be more willing to pass the information along, but Mikkel wasn’t sure how translatable it would be to Mikkel. Did the bottom actually do anything, or was it all up to the top to make sure he was alright? And did Arthur know any of this already, but was just too flustered to talk about it?

“So . . .” Mikkel mirrored the flex-y move with his shoulders. He knew what it was now: the half-roll of faux confidence. “How did that go?”

“See,” Gilbert said immediately, “this is why we talk about this stuff. Neither of us know what the fuck we’re doing.”

Mikkel smiled, self-deprecating. “Guess not.”

“It was good,” Gilbert said, leaning back against the railings. “We, uh. Frotted, I guess it’s called.”

Mikkel shrugged. The word meant nothing to him. Maybe he’d do some research tonight . . .

“Well, anyway, the clothes were all the way off, so I guess it’s confirmed that I’m bi.” Gilbert did some jazz hands. “Get excited.”

Mikkel joined him in jazz hands. “Congratulations. Glad you could join us.”

“I think Liz might be the only straight person in that school,” Gilbert said.

“And the principal,” Mikkel added.

“No way,” Gilbert said. “He’s gotta be gay.”

Mikkel blinked. “Why?”

“Dude gave you three weeks’ suspension for making a stoner’s nose bleed. He’s gotta have something up his ass.”

Mikkel shoved him. “You’re such a bastard.”

Gilbert kissed at him, but they were both laughing too much to play. Not for the first time, Mikkel wondered if he was doing himself a disservice, having people he cared for on two different continents. _No,_ he thought, firmly. _Home doesn’t have to be a place. It can be people._

“You’re not my type, anyway,” Gilbert told him. “I don’t kiss guys with shiners like that.”

* * *

That day, Arthur got home ten minutes earlier than Mikkel expected. He came into Mikkel’s bedroom without knocking, and Mikkel smiled until he saw the blush—not only in his cheeks, but his neck as well. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Gilbert gave me a ride home.” Arthur let his bookbag fall to the floor next to the dresser. “And he asked me.” He took a deep breath through his mouth and blinked a few times in that way people did when they tasted something disgusting and had to prepare for their own reaction. “Bottom questions.”

Mikkel stared at him.

“I don’t know if I should be suspicious of this,” Arthur said. “Did you ask him to ask me?”

“No,” Mikkel replied. “No, no. I didn’t ask him anything. What did he ask you?”

Here was a startling moment: did Gilbert do this on purpose? Did he ask Arthur stuff to prompt this discussion? _No._ He wasn’t that thoughtful. Was he? _Gilbert?_ More likely he just did it because he was too shy to ask Matthew. Or maybe not. Generosity from Gilbert could be a tricky thing.

“He asked—” Arthur stopped again, eyeing Mikkel sidelong.

“I promise.” Mikkel put his hands over his heart. “I didn’t do anything. I am innocent.”

Arthur held that narrowed gaze on him for a moment longer, then surrendered. He didn’t sit down, though. “He asked me what the best way to _prepare_ a bottom was.” He was turned away from Mikkel, fiddling with the loose knob on one of the dresser drawers, but he looked over his shoulder for this. “As if I would know that. I don’t, FYI. And that’s the exact word he used, by the way. _Prepare._ ”

“He’s been reading gay stuff online,” Mikkel told him, amused.

“What sort of gay stuff?”

“Uh. I don’t know. Like. Educational? Stuff?”

“Oh. That sort. I thought you meant—” Arthur shook his head. “Never mind what I thought you meant. Why is he asking me these things? Did you tell him we had sex?”

“No, of course not. Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, that’s something guys do. Lie for clout or whatever.” Arthur glanced at Mikkel and saw how offended he looked. “No, I know you wouldn’t do that. You’re not a douche. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Mikkel said. Easier that way. He still wasn’t used to the way Arthur and Francis would say _guys_ or _boys._ Like they didn’t have all the same bits. Like they didn’t use the same bathroom. Like they didn’t shop in the same—well. “So what did you tell him?”

Arthur stared, uncomprehending for a moment. “I didn’t tell him anything. I don’t know anything about anal sex. Do I look like someone who knows things about anal sex? Don’t answer that.”

Mikkel grinned.

“Fucker,” Arthur said, infinitely softer than Gilbert would. It sounded like a sweet nothing, in his accent with this cadence and that light in his eyes. “That wasn’t even the worst question. He asked me if I’d ever—” He shook his head again. It would come unscrewed soon. “He fucking asked me if I’d ever done _prostate things._ While driving! He was driving his car. And asking me about my prostate. Who does that?”

“Gilbert Beilschmidt,” Mikkel replied. He’d probably kept his eyes on the road the whole time. He’d never talk about stuff like that with Arthur while just sitting around. He’d need a distraction. Arthur and Gilbert were similar, in that respect. Mikkel liked to think he’d be the best one out of all of them at talking about things, if only he could speak English.

“Apparently,” Arthur agreed, exasperated. He’d done a full lap of the room and another half; he finally dropped down onto the bed beside Mikkel’s feet. “I hope it occurs to him that I am not actually his boyfriend. Who is the one he _should_ be talking to about this stuff.”

“Mmm.” Mikkel waited as long as he could possibly bear before he poked the small of Arthur’s back with his toes. “So, what did you say to that one?”

Arthur looked at him sharply. “Excuse me?”

Mikkel laughed, because it was either that or be terrified. “What did you say when he asked about prostate things?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Did you set this up.”

 _“No.”_ Mikkel sat up, shifted around so he could put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “I swear on everything. I did not ask him to ask you. I don’t mind asking you myself. That would be the right way. I _would_ have asked you myself, but I didn’t want to scare you. I was waiting for you to maybe bring up the sex stuff.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, but he was quieting. “You’d be waiting a long time.”

“I see this.” Mikkel chuckled. “So then should I just ask you?”

“You can ask me anything,” Arthur said, the words creeping their way out one by one.

Mikkel brightened. “Good.”

“But I don’t have to answer it,” he added quickly.

Mikkel tipped his head back for a laugh. “Sounds fair. So tell me about your prostate.”

“God,” Arthur said, but he was smirking. “Only I would end up with you.”

“I’m your punishment,” Mikkel said, and felt obscenely proud of how hard Arthur laughed.

“Well, not that it’s anyone’s business,” Arthur said, as if someone else might be listening in, “but my prostate and I are unacquainted. So if you have any other questions related to that, you might as well scrap them. I haven’t done anything that has anything to do with that.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Mikkel’s face must have looked surprised or something, because Arthur bristled a bit. “Why, have _you_ shoved anything up your ass lately?”

Mikkel couldn’t take the serious look on his face with those words on his lips. “No, I—I can’t say that I have. I don’t think that is for me.”

Arthur regarded him. “No. Probably not.” A bit of levity came back to him and he sat back against the wall. “You know, your job is a lot easier. I’m just saying.” He crossed his ankles over Mikkel’s lap. “You have a lot less to worry about.”

“Do I?” Mikkel thought for the hundredth time about the specifics of this fabled preparation. He knew what stretching was, in theory. And he knew it wasn’t just a gay thing. But knowing that and actually doing it were two very different things. “I mean, I have to . . .”

Arthur raised both eyebrows. Mikkel actually felt his face heating up, among other things.

“There isn’t anything going inside of you,” Arthur said. “I think that’s less worry right there.”

It finally came to Mikkel, how great it was that Arthur was finally saying words like this, in order, while looking at him. No sign of breaking down. Not even much blushing. Arthur was totally calm, actually amused, and talking about penetrative sex.

_This is progress._

Also:

_This is hot._

Arthur could tell, now. Mikkel couldn’t hide anything like this from him anymore. “Are you getting turned on right now?”

Mikkel shrugged, smiling. “I’m a simple man.”

“No.” Arthur’s lips curled into a different smirk now, with a warmness in his eyes alongside that wicked arrogance. He looked delectable. “You’re the opposite.”

Downstairs came the ever familiar commotion of the front door opening, closing, winter boots being kicked off, winter coat shucking from shoulders. Mrs. Kirkland was home. Fun time was over. Arthur got up and headed for the door—Mikkel enjoyed the view of him in that shirt all lace and black and _waist_ —but paused to turn around in the doorway.

“But, listen,” he said quickly, arms bent with both hands on the door jamb like he was trying to push the house apart, “let’s not get too hung up on, um. Anal. Yeah?”

Maybe Mikkel didn’t actually know anything about gay people in real life. He’d had arguments with a feminist girlfriend that porn was fantasy and being able to draw the line between fantasy and reality was what differentiated between adults and children and _porn is fine as long as everyone consents_ —but maybe he was more right than he thought. Maybe he didn’t actually know how real people had sex.

Arthur was blushing a bit, now. He was a curious creature. It was all manner of filth at lunch period, C words and F words and analogies that made even Gilbert wrinkle his nose. But now, in a bedroom with the spring sun setting, he was—bashful.

Mikkel was already used to the idea that they may not get to have sex at all in this stretch of time that was secured for them. Accepting that they might not have one particular kind of sex wasn’t much work. They didn’t even have condoms. Not that either of them had STDs, surely, but . . . well, there was also the matter of clean-up, which was another thing he hadn’t thought about. How did you get it . . . out, afterward?

“No big deal,” Mikkel agreed. “No pressure. No anything.”

“No anything,” Arthur echoed, and gave a relieved sort of nod. “Sure. Good. Alright.”

Away he went, to set the table for supper. Mikkel got up, stretched, flexed the arm he’d twinged oddly when bringing out the lawn ornaments today, and was just about to head out and help them downstairs when his phone whistled.

A text from Arthur.

**To be continued.**

* * *

The teachers had a meeting at the end of the week, so the students were dismissed at noon. It was raining long before then, so Mikkel had been stuck indoors, spending more time knocking his forehead into the kitchen table than achieving anything academic. When he heard the school bus shuddering at the end of the road, he grabbed his coat and an umbrella and hurried out to the bus stop. Here was a joy: seeing Arthur’s face light up when he glanced up on his way down the steps and saw Mikkel standing there.

“You again,” Arthur said.

“Me again,” Mikkel agreed. He wanted to take his bag, but he knew it would start an argument so he didn’t. He took Arthur’s hand instead. “Your fingers are cold. Where are your gloves?”

“Oh, relax, Mum.” Arthur squirmed his fingers free and worked them up Mikkel’s sleeve. “My fingers are always cold.”

Mikkel shivered, but he let Arthur take his warmth. It wasn’t true, what he said; sometimes his fingers were warm, so warm and so tender that Mikkel couldn’t believe they were attached to him. Sometimes they looked so delicate to Mikkel that he thought it might hurt Arthur for him to touch them. But these were thoughts he couldn’t explain to himself, let alone to someone else. 

“I guess it can’t be that cold,” he allowed, “if it’s raining.”

“I don’t find it cold.” Arthur seemed oddly cheerful; a floatiness lifted his steps a bit higher than usual, put a bit more of a swing in his gait. This display made Mikkel realize how long it had been since Arthur was happy to be outside. Winter didn’t do much for him. Now, spring had taken hold. The warmth was returning, to the world and to Arthur.

“Do you ever think,” Arthur said as they turned into the driveway, “about how so many things aren’t allowed anymore, now that you’re grown up? Kids are allowed to wear rain boots and play in puddles. It’s expected of kids. Your kid is weird if it doesn’t hop in a puddle.”

Mikkel stopped, looking down at him. Rain pattered on the umbrella above their heads.

Arthur looked up at him. “It isn’t even really that fun, to be honest,” he demurred. “Playing in puddles. There’s not much you can do with it. Creativity-wise. It’s just sort of satisfying. But that in itself is something, isn’t it—just doing something _because_ there’s no reason to do it, you know? What are you doing?”

This last was because Mikkel had lowered the umbrella and folded it back up with a click. He shook droplets from it and tossed it onto the step, under the overhang. Then he held out his hand and said, “I am taking your bag and putting it inside, and then we’re going to jump in puddles.”

Arthur didn’t say he wasn’t wearing rain boots. He didn’t say the evil old lady across the street might judge them. He didn’t say he had homework, or Mikkel had homework, or it was a waste of their time in general and they should be mature, serious people who only did normal things that made sense.

He just took the bookbag off his shoulder and slid the strap into Mikkel’s hand.

Mikkel put the bag inside. He expected Arthur to change his mind and follow him in.

He didn’t.

There weren’t many puddles to be had in the driveway, but the road the Kirkland house was situated on hadn’t been paved in human memory and so the surface was peppered with divots. Arthur stood on the sidewalk, lingering, and Mikkel stood in the street and took that moment to just watch him. The humidity of the day had him in one of his old woolly sweaters, but he was wearing a pair of faded jeans given from Francis and his converse with rainbow laces given from Alfred. He was a young nobleman in an oil painting, dressed in clothes from three different decades. Mikkel had never seen someone look so old and young at the same time. _You’re so wonderful. I wish you knew how wonderful you are._

Mikkel held out his hand.

Arthur looked at him, estimated his trajectory, and leapt into the nearest puddle. The splash wasn’t anything exciting, but his mouth was pleased with it. Mikkel hopped closer to him, sending a light spray up to darken the legs of Arthur’s jeans. _Hey!_ Arthur kicked water at Mikkel and he laughed, grabbing his hand and twirling him. It was a spring dance, the hailing of coming brightness: they spun and stomped merrily up and down the street, only twice having to scurry to the sidewalk for passing cars. Mikkel waved joyfully at both cars, and the second time a little girl in the backseat waved back, grinning.

Arthur was watching him. It wasn’t a fond smile, it was the smile of someone who was looking at past, present, and future all at the same time. Arthur couldn’t hide that look from him anymore.

“No,” Mikkel said. He grabbed him by his waist and lifted him up onto the sidewalk. “Don’t.”

Arthur stared, half-distracted by the glee of the ascent.

“Don’t,” Mikkel said again. He cupped his face; Arthur’s cheeks were wet with rain. “I know you.”

Arthur’s eyes darted back and forth, meeting both his eyes, taking in all of his face. Then he nodded. “I know.”

He hadn’t said he wouldn’t think those thoughts, but Mikkel took the nod as a compromise. He lifted Arthur again, swinging him around to land his feet in a puddle. That put a grin on his face, so Mikkel did it again, and again, and again until they were both too dizzy and they had to cling to each other there at the end of the driveway.

Arthur’s forehead was on Mikkel’s shoulder and he was breathless, so Mikkel didn’t hear what he said at first. “I guess you’re real.”

“What convinced you?”

“I couldn’t have come up with something like you.” Arthur pulled back to see Mikkel’s smile. Then, quick as a hare, he stretched up to kiss him right on the lips and bounded up the driveway, up the steps, into the house.

Grinning, Mikkel gave chase.

* * *

Mikkel’s first day of freedom turned out to be on the same day spring officially arrived. Not as far as the calendar was concerned, of course, only for Arthur. After Mikkel got through the obligatory struggle of waking to an alarm after sleeping in for three weeks, and Mrs. Kirkland had given him a warning look that said _don’t get into any fights_ on her way out, and Mikkel and Arthur had enjoyed their first breakfast together since March, they went outside.

Mikkel wasn’t expecting it; Arthur’s halt was so abrupt, he nearly hauled him off his feet by their joined hands. Mikkel let Arthur tug him over to the flower bed and knelt with him as he carefully plucked leaves away.

A tiny cluster of flowers, the softest yellows and purples, were standing up, hugging themselves tightly until the morning sun could warm them.

Arthur wasn’t _quite_ smiling with his mouth, but his eyes were positively beaming. Mikkel made up for it with his own mouth. “What are they?”

“Crocuses,” Arthur replied. He touched them delicately with his fingertips. “They’re the first to come and the first to go.”

Mikkel wondered if Arthur ever felt pure happiness, without the slightest tinge of sadness. Probably not. He wouldn’t be Arthur, if he did. He’d be Alfred or Feliciano, those happy-go-lucky sorts. Arthur wasn’t like that and Mikkel didn’t want him to be. There was nothing wrong with bittersweet. It stimulated the palate.

“Good morning, crocuses,” Mikkel said, because he knew it would make Arthur’s lips quirk. They did. “Welcome back.”

“Welcome back,” Arthur echoed, very quietly, only for the flowers.

They ended up at the bus stop just as the bus got there. Arthur didn’t say anything about his dawdling. Mikkel held Arthur to him the whole way to school. The heaters were still running despite the weather; it was so warm that when they got to the bus loop, Mikkel had to nudge Arthur twice before he sat up, blinking blearily.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“Of course not.”

Mikkel got up, waiting for Arthur to climb out of the seat before he followed him. He hoped he had a sweet dream.

“Hey, it’s the heavyweight!”

Mikkel let Gilbert get him in a headlock as they entered the cafeteria; they roughhoused their way over to the table. Mikkel was bent over, so he didn’t see at first. Only when Gilbert stilled did he pull free and straighten. Arthur, Francis, and Matthew were already sitting at the table. Standing at the end, beside Francis’s seat, was Antonio.

Now Mikkel realized how far gone Antonio had been, because this was night and day: the boy who stood in front of him was so much clearer than the one he’d seen at the party, the one who’d tripped Gilbert in the changing room, the one who’d scorned Mikkel and Arthur on the bleachers. Arthur had told him that Antonio had been in contact with Francis, but he hadn’t mentioned _this._ By the looks on Arthur and Francis’s faces, they were just as surprised as he was.

Antonio knew it. He gave a lopsided, rueful smile and said, “The undefeated champion.”

Mikkel looked at him. Gilbert looked at him. Even Matthew looked at him. Waiting.

“Pull up a chair, Toni,” Arthur suddenly said. Francis was smiling his old smile, the one without pain in his eyes. Arthur must have seen it, but all he gave them was a smirk. “Don’t be such a fucking stranger.”

Mikkel ended up pulling the chair, and Gilbert said _wow wow look at those muscles_ while Antonio mimed worship, raising and lowering his arms again and again. Gilbert put his arm around Matthew and Mikkel put his hand on Arthur’s thigh and Francis and Antonio shared a smile every time their gazes bounced off each other, and yet . . .

It wasn’t often Mikkel had bad feelings about something, and almost always he was right. Unfortunately, this was the case now.

He didn’t find out for sure until the party.

* * *

There was no warning, because Arthur was an evil creature. As far as Mikkel was concerned, it was just a normal day. He didn’t question Mrs. Kirkland’s lingering smile at Arthur before she left that morning. He didn’t question Gilbert punching his shoulder or Francis giving him one of his freshly baked sweets ( _macarons_ ) or Antonio pulling him aside right after the end-of-lunch bell rang. Mikkel gave Arthur an inquiring look, and Arthur just shook his head. _Just Toni stuff,_ Mikkel assumed. Something personal maybe. Or something entirely superfluous. Either was equally likely, with Antonio.

It lasted all through the bus ride, the hour before dinner, the hour _after_ dinner. Then, when Arthur and Mrs. Kirkland and Mikkel were watching TV in the living room, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Kirkland didn’t look up from the papers she was marking, but she smiled.

Arthur got up too fast for Mikkel to see his face. He followed after him.

The door was barely opened before Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio were all pouring in: _“Happy Birthday!”_

But somehow, Arthur was standing with them and smiling at Mikkel. He stared at them all, shocked into silence for an impressive collection of seconds before at last he found his tongue. “What is this? It’s not my birthday.” He turned on Arthur. “Is it _your_ birthday? You didn’t say anything!”

“Because I didn’t want you to think you had to get me anything,” Arthur told him. “Because I can’t have you getting me things.”

“You’ll give him a complex,” Gilbert said.

“A compl—”

“Please,” Arthur said, and Gilbert held up _sorry I’ll shut up_ hands. “I thought,” Arthur went on, again addressing Mikkel, “we could just combine our birthdays, since yours is in August. No presents, no big deal, just—” He shrugged, a faint smile creeping onto his mouth. “A nice little get-together.”

“Party,” Antonio said.

“Nope. Absolutely not. No parties. I will never go to another party as long as I live.”

“I did bring something,” Francis said, while Gilbert and Antonio were snickering. “Sorry. It’s in the car.”

“You didn’t.”

Francis smiled helplessly. “I had to.”

Arthur shook his head, but they could hear the smile in his words. “You have a serious problem. Remind me to stage an intervention. Did you bring ice cream to go with?”

Blue eyes widened. “No, I didn’t think—”

“Deep breaths in,” Arthur said over him. “Oxygen. Relax. I’m messing with you. I don’t like ice cream, anyway. Is it in the backseat? I’ll go get it—”

“No, it’s your birthday.” Mikkel picked Arthur up and deposited him on the other side of the hall. “I’ll get the cake. It is cake? Not drugs?”

Gilbert laughed loud enough that Arthur gave him a disapproving look, and Francis said, “Yes, it’s cake. The car is unlocked. Are the plates still in the same cupboard, Arthur? Oh, the wallpaper is even the same . . .”

Out Mikkel went. It was so nice to finally get hours of daylight back. He hated how oppressive winter nights were. Tino always said they were cozy, but Mikkel didn’t think that was enough. Cozy to him was lounging under a sunset that lasted as long as it needed. He wanted to have plenty of time to say goodbye.

The cake was perfect, of course, round and golden and decorated with white icing roses. Mikkel knew Arthur would appreciate the lack of gaudy colors. There was no writing, which surprised him, just carefully placed toothpicks to keep the plastic wrap from sticking. He picked up the plate gingerly and stood up, then jumped when he closed the car door. Antonio was standing there.

“I told them I forgot my phone out here,” he said.

Mikkel stared at him. “. . . Did you forget it?”

Antonio stared, too, for a second. “No.” He shrugged a bit, like he was trying to adjust his jacket without touching it. Credit had to be given: he looked good in leather. “No, I wanted to talk to you, man.”

Mikkel had the words _and you couldn’t do it inside?_ in his mouth, but he didn’t let them out. They only had so long before the others would wonder what was keeping them. If Antonio had to say something serious, Mikkel had to let him. He nodded.

Antonio stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking off down the street. “I, uh, I’ve been an asshole. I know. I’ve already apologized to Fran—well, I’m still doing that. Probably will be for a while.” Then he stopped suddenly, gaze falling to the shoes he scuffed against the driveway. “That’s what I wanted to talk about, actually. I just figured, it’s different with you, y’know? You’re not from around here. You’ll be leaving soon, too.”

Mikkel had been looking at him, but now he sought his gaze. “Toni.”

“I’m not gonna get into what I was dealing with, what I _am_ dealing with, ’cause you know what? It’s not your problem. That’s what I realized, at the party. I was watching Lars make a dick of himself and I thought, _This is what you’ve been doing._ I’ve been making it everybody else’s problem, and I’m sick of that. I’m done with it.” Antonio smiled up at Mikkel. Something was off, in his eyes. Broken. “You guys are good fucking people. You don’t deserve my shit.”

Mikkel heard all the noise inside him, the excitement and the joy, go silent. Softly, he said, “Toni.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Antonio glanced at him, then did a double take, smiling more intensely. “I’m serious! Don’t worry. It’s all good, okay? I’m gonna . . .” He dragged a hand through his curls and kept it there on the back of his head while his eyes drifted again. “I’m gonna stay with Gil for a while. My room got fucked up, so they gotta fix it, and I told ’em I had nightmares in the guest room. They believed me, too.” He beamed, but it was like a mask with rubber teeth and painted eyes. “Arthur’s not the only one who can lie.”

_What?_

“I didn’t wanna stay with Fran, ’cause—” Antonio looked back at the house so suddenly Mikkel could barely keep track of his attention. “We should probably get back in there. But, yeah, I didn’t wanna rush things with him. So I’ll just chill at Gil’s. I won’t be there long.”

And again. Mikkel grabbed his arm just as they crossed the threshold, into the steady warmth of the house. “Toni—”

“Jeez, what took you guys so long?” Gilbert came out of the living room, his grin only faltering when he saw how Mikkel was holding Antonio’s sleeve and looking at him like . . . “Something wrong?”

Antonio looked up at him. He looked like Toni Before, but with just that faint wrongness. He was a doll with the wrong amount of stuffing. He smelled clean, he acted clean, but what were the things he was saying? Why was his room fucked up? What had been going on for him? _How can I help you if you don’t want me to?_

Mikkel let him go.

Antonio gave one of his classic lazy smiles, all of him easy and carefree as the curls on his head. “Nah, just messin’ around. Can we eat now?”

“Oh, yeah, like you need sugar.”

“Hey, I’m a growing boy.”

Mikkel put on a smile as he stepped into the living room, which Mrs. Kirkland had kindly vacated so as not to make the gathering of teenagers reluctant to swear about sex. He smiled as he sat with Arthur and they fed each other bites of delicious vanilla buttercream cake. He smiled as Gilbert and Francis and Antonio told stories of their childhood romps around this house and theirs with Arthur. He smiled as Arthur got them back with embarrassing anecdotes about the trio that all three pretended they couldn’t remember. And by the end of the night, his smile and laughter was real.

But Antonio didn’t leave his thoughts.

* * *

He snagged Gilbert on his way out of the bathroom.

“Listen,” he said, under his breath so Gilbert would know this was serious without being told, “you should keep an eye on Toni.”

Gilbert’s brow lowered on his eyes and he stood a little straighter. “I know. I will.”

Mikkel had more feelings than words, so they just stood there, listening to the muffled conversation downstairs.

“I know,” Gilbert said again, softly. “I’m worried about him, too.”

Mikkel glanced at him.

One half of Gilbert’s mouth smiled. “Anyway. Happy Not Birthday, big guy.”

The other half of Mikkel’s mouth tugged outward. “Happy Not Birthday to you, too.”


	10. May

As it turned out, seventeen didn’t feel any different than sixteen. Arthur wasn’t expecting much; the whole Sweet Sixteen thing had been underwhelming to say the least, considering he had an exciting birthday party with a guest list of his mother and himself. This celebration had been a massive step up. Days later, he still caught himself smiling at the memory of it. He’d forgotten how wonderful it was to have his friends in his own house. _They were here for you,_ Mikkel told him that night, between goodnight kisses. _They love you. I love you more, of course._ Arthur had closed his eyes. _You’ll spoil me._ Mikkel had smiled against his cheek. _What would be wrong with that?_

He’d gotten a hug from Gilbert, Francis, and Antonio on top of the kisses from Mikkel. Though Arthur wouldn’t admit it, for the sake of his reputation, his touch-starved heart considered those excellent presents.

He couldn’t feel anything but relief about the Antonio situation. He’d resisted the temptation to probe Francis, because at this point demanding truths felt akin to tainting them. So far, he’d been told that Francis and Antonio were not dating, but they were _testing the waters._ Going slowly, so Francis said. _Maybe we were just going too fast, before._ Arthur hadn’t said what he thought about that theory, which was that speed had nothing to do with whether or not Antonio had to be drunk to handle being himself. Francis claimed Antonio hadn’t had a drink in over a month. Arthur hoped it would stay that way.

Antonio took more work to reintegrate than Matthew did to bring in fresh. It was now a regular occurence to drag chairs from other tables to incorporate Matthew and occasionally Alfred into their dining discussions. Arthur actually felt a bit overwhelmed by it sometimes, especially when Feliciano, Lovino, and Ludwig stopped by to tell Francis or Gilbert something. It was too many faces, too close, too at-the-same-time. Mikkel could tell from his face or maybe just sense it, because he always touched Arthur. Whether it was a hand on his hip or foot hooking around his ankle or fingertips on his wrist: that one touch was enough to ground him. _This, here, now._

Forever, Arthur had seen other people as background noise. Setting details. Puppets with invisible strings. Obstacles for him to navigate, nothing more. Nothing that should matter to him. Even now, he sometimes felt that way when he was sitting at the table; Gilbert or Antonio’s chatter would fade out and Arthur would find himself wondering at how little he truly knew about them. But he didn’t feel that way about Mikkel anymore. He’d never thought someone would become so close to him that they fully escaped that lens through which he viewed the world, but it had happened. And he didn’t even know everything about Mikkel—far from it. But he still felt it, that uncomplicated trust, that blurred line between _you_ and _me_ that just became _us_ . . .

“You,” Mikkel said, though it was more of a rumble in his chest because he was barely opening his mouth, “drive me crazy.”

They were in the backyard, lying on a blanket because the ground was still slightly damp even with the warmest day yet’s sun shining down on them. Arthur was mostly sitting; Mikkel was curled around him with his head in his lap. It was the most cuddling Arthur would permit in full view of the house—and the neighboring houses, for that matter. Arthur was already drunk enough on the hums of spring. Touches from Mikkel had to be taken sparingly.

“You,” Arthur said, smoothing Mikkel’s rumpled hair, “have clearly never met yourself.”

Mikkel rolled a little, so he could look at Arthur upside-down. “I think I understand English perfect now, you know. I think _you_ just talk weird.”

Arthur smirked. “Is that what you think?”

“Mmm, that is what I think.” He was smiling up at Arthur now, eyes twinkling. They couldn’t be shining or sparkling. It could only be called twinkling.

Arthur was obscenely tempted to hunch over and kiss him, but he was worried he wasn’t flexible enough and that would be too embarrassing. So he just traced the outline of Mikkel’s lips with his fingertip. “You have a big mouth.”

“You have big eyebrows,” Mikkel replied, reaching up to touch them.

Arthur grasped his hand before it could get there. “What happened to Mikkel Densen, they’ll say. The last we saw of him, he was talking to his boyfriend, they’ll say.”

Mikkel pouted, but his smile was still tugging fiercely. “Will you write my eulogy?”

“Don’t make this that kind of story.” Arthur knew the sadness was coming, but he didn’t want that messy, never-ending sort. He didn’t want a gaping hole ripped in his life, never to be fully healed, unable to be filled in. He knew they couldn’t be together forever. He accepted it. When the time came, he would cut things off neatly. With as few casualties as possible.

“I’m not,” Mikkel said. “I’m invincible.”

“I know you are.” Arthur’s fingers found their way under Mikkel’s jaw. There was a hint of stubble, tucked under there. He wondered if it was harder to shave there. He still didn’t need to yet. Maybe he should ask Mikkel to teach him, before he left. How pathetic would that be? Mikkel’s shoulders were rising. “Does this tickle?”

“Mm.” Mikkel nudged Arthur’s hand back up, around his face and into his hair. Arthur pushed his fingers through it and Mikkel’s eyes closed, a groaning sigh easing from his chest. “Mmmmmm . . .”

Arthur shook his head. “You’re worse than a dog.”

But Mikkel kept smiling, so Arthur kept stroking his hair. It didn’t matter who was leaving who, at the end of the day; Mikkel was the happier one, so it would hurt him more when all was said and done. Arthur would just have to make the best of this.

* * *

Despite the planning they’d been doing since the beginning of the month, Arthur still woke up to a multitude of texts from all three brothers on Saturday morning. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. They had all pitched in (the others had done most of the pitching, since Arthur was the only one without any form of employment) to pay for a spa weekend for Mrs. Kirkland. And now, in their absence, it fell to Arthur to present this information.

_Hug her for me._

_And kiss her on both cheeks for me._

_And don’t say any of your sarcastic bullshit._

It would be tough.

He could hear Mikkel snoring when he walked by Dylan’s room. He didn’t wake him. Curious, that Mikkel didn’t _always_ snore. Maybe it was just a position thing. Arthur wondered if he’d be able to put up with something like that, whenever his future rolled around. Married couples slept beside each other always, right? Unless someone had pissed somebody else off. He didn’t think a racket like that beside his head would be conducive to a good night’s sleep. Maybe he could get used to it, but how long and painful would that process be?

_Wanted: loving partner who won’t mind sleeping in separate beds._

Sometimes it shocked even him, how much he sounded like a serial killer.

Downstairs, Mrs. Kirkland was standing at the counter in her house cardigan—it had rips in the sleeves, but it was also the softest one she owned—waiting for toast to pop. Arthur came up beside her and poked at one of the holes near her wrist. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, dear.” She smiled vaguely at the toaster. “I had some trouble sleeping last night, did you?”

“Oh. Not really.” He hadn’t expected the need for a segue. _Shit._ “So . . . did you have any plans for the weekend?”

“I was rather looking forward to hibernating on the sofa for a while. Why? Did you need to go somewhere?”

“No, no.” A bit of guilt sparked inside him, despite everything. Surprises, it seemed to him, were always more trouble than they were worth. Communication was the key to a smooth-rolling life. Not that he was very good at communication—but, then, his life wasn’t exactly buttery smooth, so that was fitting. “Well, don’t feel any pressure to do this, we can probably get a refund, and it doesn’t matter if we can or not actually forget I said that, but . . .”

Mrs. Kirkland’s toast popped up, but she didn’t take it out of the toaster. She turned her smile on him and said, patiently, “Run-on sentence, darling.”

When was the last time she’d called him that? He could have hugged her for that. Well, _he_ couldn’t have, but his heart could have. “We got you a spa weekend. For Mother’s Day.”

Her face brightened; sometimes he forgot what color her eyes really were, this bright green he saw when he looked in the mirror. It seemed like his brothers’ eyes got darker every time he saw them, like growing up meant this fading, hiding, wall-building. Before, Arthur had longed for that, the numbing to the terrible fears and feelings inside him. But now . . .

Mrs. Kirkland smoothed his hair back and framed his face with her hands half over his ears, like she’d done when he was little and his hair was long. _You mustn’t hide that face, my love._ “Thank you very much, Arthur. And tell your brothers I said thank you, as well. I’m sure I’ll get calls from them today.” The edge of her voice hardened there, and Arthur made a mental note to remind them to call her _or else._ “So I’ll thank them myself. But you tell them it’s a wonderful surprise. It’s a two-day retreat, is it?”

“Yes,” he replied. “They, uh, they expect you there by noon.”

Mrs. Kirkland glanced at the clock on the microwave. 9:26. Her eyes went a bit unfocused, the telltale racing of the mind. “Then I need to pack a bag and put petrol in the car and make something for you two to heat up tonight—”

“I can make soup or something,” Arthur offered.

Mrs. Kirkland stared at him.

“. . . or we can order pizza.”

“Alright, do that, then. And . . . oh, I need to make a list of all the things you have to do. You have the neighbors’ numbers, don’t you? I think they’re here, in the—”

“Mum?” Arthur called.

She ducked back into the kitchen, eyes wide. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to eat your toast?”

* * *

Eventually, after making three trips back into the house to be sure she hadn’t forgotten something, and after testing their phones to ensure that Arthur could indeed text and call her, and making sure Mikkel knew where the first-aid kit was and the matches and what 911 was ( _yes, Mrs. Kirkland_ ), she finally backed out of the driveway and drove away. Arthur and Mikkel stood on the step, waving to her until she turned off the street and they could no longer see her car.

Mikkel looked down at Arthur. Arthur looked up at Mikkel.

“Slumber party!” Mikkel cried.

“Nonononono,” Arthur said, until it sank in and Mikkel stopped trying to pick him up. “No. The list first. There’s more Tall Person work for you.”

Mikkel shook his head. “All work and no play for the Tall Person.”

“Five points.” Arthur would have snuck a kiss in if they were close enough, but Mikkel was already walking back into the house so he just gave his hand a little squeeze instead. “Cleaning first, and then you can do some fun stuff.”

Mikkel glanced over his shoulder. “Are you fun stuff?”

Arthur ignored the wicked grin creeping over Mikkel’s face; he’d have a heart attack, otherwise. “Changing a lightbulb in the living room. That’s loads of fun.”

He was being sarcastic, but it actually was fun. Arthur was used to having his time with Mikkel in the house be relegated to quiet conversation in the living room or a bedroom, but now they could talk as loud as they liked. Mikkel took out his laptop and put on music. Arthur tended to avoid the topic of music with his friends, because it was _never_ something they could bond over. No one shared his taste in music. Mikkel didn’t either, really, but that was because he liked practically everything. He didn’t love or hate any genre. Arthur was pretty sure he didn’t feel a deep connection with any particular song, either, but maybe that was alright. If pop and rock and rap and country all made Mikkel happy equally, that was more happiness in the world.

He always switched the song when techno came on, though. Arthur gave him a grateful look each time, and Mikkel smiled.

Their cleaning was the most domestic of dances. In and out of rooms they weaved, checking off the tiny tasks Mrs. Kirkland had outlined for them to complete. Arthur swept dust from behind bookshelves and tidied up the sorry state of the wires behind the entertainment center. Mikkel cleaned off the blades of the ceiling fans and the window blinds. Instead of using the broom like a normal person, Mikkel lifted Arthur up so he could use the duster to clear the cobwebs out of the ceiling corners.

“Completely unnecessary,” Arthur said, once his feet were safely on the ground.

Mikkel raised an innocent brow. “Do you want me to stop picking you up?”

Arthur stared at him. _You despicable bastard._ “You . . . I’m not at liberty to answer that.”

“At l—”

“You can’t take me alive,” Arthur told him, and took to the stairs. He heard Mikkel’s feet pounding after him, and for a moment he felt the glee of being a little kid again, doing something to piss off his big brothers and _finally_ them paying attention to him, chasing him, then eventually punishing him but of course the former was worth the latter. He ran into the kitchen and Mikkel grabbed him from behind, laughing.

“I took you alive,” he said, holding Arthur tight.

“You did,” Arthur agreed, but his voice was going quiet. All of him was going quiet. The reality was setting in. They had two days together, alone. At long last, they had time to themselves and only themselves. There was no one but their morals and God to say they couldn’t get naked right now and fuck on the kitchen table.

But they weren’t going to do that. That wasn’t real life.

“We could have cookies for lunch,” Mikkel said, like it was a great epiphany.

The dramatics inside Arthur lulled, and he felt a relieved smile ease onto his lips. “We _could_ , but _should_ we?”

Mikkel let him go just so Arthur could see his pout. “That’s no fun. We already did the responsible stuff.”

“You go ahead and have cookies for lunch,” Arthur told him, “but if you feel sick afterward, don’t complain to me.”

Mikkel smiled. “You got yourself a deal.”

So Arthur made himself a sandwich with the contents of the fridge while Mikkel ate four cookies with another cookie for dessert. Arthur expected to see at least faint signs of nausea during their next hour of snuggling on the couch, but Mikkel seemed completely unaffected and actually got up to bring back the half-eaten bag of chips from the cupboard.

“Maybe you’re just a bottomless pit,” Arthur said, watching him eat three chips for every one of his.

“Maybe,” Mikkel agreed, muffled by his crunching and munching. “Gil is jealous of us. He gets fat if he eats too much.”

“Poor thing.” Arthur wondered if Mikkel would ever deal with weight issues—or if he already had. Just because he was lanky as hell now didn’t mean he’d always been. There was something he’d never asked him. “What did you look like as a kid?”

Mikkel glanced at him, surprised at the sudden shift. “Uh, I don’t know. Small.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“I had hair all down around, like.” He mimed a round shape around his head. “Like a bowl.”

“Oh, God. Do you have pictures?”

“No. Never. Ever.”

Arthur stifled a snicker into a protest. “Not fair. You’ve seen me as a kid.”

“You were _cute_ at least.” Mikkel twisted around to look up at the wall. Mrs. Kirkland had hung each of the boys’ first year school photos. Arthur’s blond hair stuck out like a sore thumb, as always. At least he had teeth in his picture, though; that was more than could be said for Scott and Liam. “Your little cheeks. I love those.”

“I think you’re getting off-topic,” Arthur said, trying to ignore the way those _little cheeks_ were heating up right about now.

Mikkel smiled indulgently. “I was an ugly kid. That’s why I’m so nice.”

Arthur laughed, but Mikkel didn’t. Now Arthur just stared.

Mikkel shrugged. “I thought I was so ugly when puberty started. It was bad. Like . . .” He shook his head. “This is the best I’ve ever looked. So I guess.” Something sparked in his eyes. “I guess it’s downhill from here.”

Arthur smirked, hearing his sense of humor in Mikkel’s accent. “Guess so. But.” He moved a little closer to him, tucking his legs underneath him on the couch. “Are you serious? Do you actually smile because you thought you had to to get people to like you?”

“I mean, that’s why I started.” Mikkel smiled, but it was his fake one, the curly-corner one. “Now I just do it because I’m so sexy.” Arthur pushed at his shoulder until his real smile came out and he grabbed at Arthur’s wrists. “And I do it because I’m happy, now. I wasn’t unhappy before. I had Ber, and I’ve been friends with Tino through school too. But you make me a different happy.”

Arthur knew what he meant. Francis and Gilbert, Matthew and Alfred, even Antonio had their ways of making Arthur happy, but it was entirely different with Mikkel. It was backward, but they were the ones who felt temporary in his mind; it was Mikkel who he felt the glowing, steady joy of _you make me happy and you’re the one I get to go home with and that makes me happy, too._ Mikkel felt so much more permanent than his friends. _He’s changed me more than they have._ He had a larger piece of Mikkel in his heart than anyone else. If not for him . . .

Arthur rested his head against Mikkel’s chest, holding his breath until he was sure he could hear the thump of his heart. Mikkel’s arms came around him automatically, his hands smoothing their way down his sides until they linked at the small of his back.

 _I love you,_ he thought.

He couldn’t say it. He just couldn’t.

“You make me happy, too,” he whispered. That, he could say. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Mikkel kissed the top of his head. “There’s nothing to thank for.”

They both fell quiet. Arthur listened to his heart and his lungs, working cheerfully along. _Cheerful internal organs? Really? You’re ruined for this kid._ He really was, but he’d known that for months now. He was beyond that. He was beyond real life. Today, in this endless day, they were free to be themselves. Teenage lovers without the weight of consequences. Tomorrow, they could face reality.

And they couldn’t even get pregnant. So that was good news right off the bat.

“Do you want to talk,” Arthur said, then almost paused but dove ahead before he could make it sound weirder than it already did, “about sex?”

“Like the song?”

It took Arthur way too long to realize what the hell he meant by that. “No, not like the song. How do you know that song?”

Mikkel laughed; Arthur could have listened to it against his ear on loop forever. “It’s in movies.”

“You’re watching the wrong movies.” Arthur waited until Mikkel was done laughing again. “I just think we should talk about, you know, things we will do and things we won’t do. That way we don’t have to decide in the moment and maybe feel guilty or something.”

That was the advice the internet had given him, anyway. It wasn’t just BDSM that had Will/Won’t lists, apparently, but all forms of sex. That made sense to him. And it did seem like something he would do: get too worked up and embarrassed in the moment to say no to something, then end up doing something he hated or—more likely—break down and really make a mess of things.

“Okay,” Mikkel said. “So I say things I like?”

“Er. I guess so.”

“I like your cheeks.”

“Stop.”

“I do.” Arthur could hear the grin on his face. “I like all of you. I like touching you. I like picking you up.”

Arthur was so glad he wasn’t looking at Mikkel. That was the only way he could possibly say things like these. “I like when you pick me up, too.”

Mikkel’s lips touched his hair. “I like you on my lap.”

Jesus, Arthur was already shivering. The point of sex was to not orgasm immediately, right? “I like you behind me.”

“I like you under me.”

Arthur closed his eyes, but that was worse, because he could _see_ it, because he’d pictured it so many nights. In all their makeout sessions, Mikkel had never truly pinned him down. They had never been hip-to-hip with nothing between them but zippers. Arthur wanted . . .

“I like that, too,” Arthur said, just a breath.

Mikkel shifted against him a bit, but nothing sexual. Just an adjustment. It made Arthur’s heart race, regardless. “We haven’t said anything we don’t like.”

_Just say it. You know he won’t care. Just spit it out, you pussy._

“I don’t want to do penetration,” he said, because _penetration_ was slightly better than _anal_ in his head. There were no romantic words for the specific forms of sex. If you wanted any more detail than _making love_ , it was a trip to the fucking gastroenterologist. “I don’t want to rush into it. I probably should have been . . . practising, I guess, but I didn’t want to rush into that either.”

Everybody jerked off with their mother in the house. Did everybody stick fingers up their ass with their mother in the house? Arthur wasn’t so sure about that.

“That’s alright,” Mikkel said, almost before the words were fully out of his mouth. “I know. It’s okay. We don’t have to do that. I don’t want to rush it either. I don’t want to hurt you. And there are no condoms.”

 _You bought lube, but you don’t have condoms?_ That seemed like something the top should supply. _Top brings the condom, bottom brings the lube._ That sounded like a neat arrangement. But real life wasn’t exactly neat, so he was probably just being naive as usual.

“Are you sure?” Arthur asked. He still hadn’t moved his head off Mikkel’s chest. His cheek hadn’t burned a hole through his shirt yet, so they were doing good. “I don’t want to kill your dreams or whatever.”

Mikkel laughed. “My dreams are not dead. It’s okay.”

“Okay. Good.” A pause. “Is there anything you don’t want to do?”

“Hmmmm . . . No pee stuff.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s a bit more hardcore than I was thinking for the first time, but we’re agreed on that, at least.”

Mikkel giggled, which was how Arthur realized he was nervous. “Well, you asked.”

Arthur finally sat up. Mikkel’s eyes were sort of wide, watching him, and his smile was only small. Uncertain. Unwilling to accidentally cross boundaries. A mirror image of how Arthur felt.

 _It’s nowhere near as hard as you make it in your head,_ he told himself. _Nothing ever is. Just breathe._

“No choking,” Arthur said. “But you can put your hand on my neck, if you want.”

Mikkel’s gaze dropped to his throat, and Arthur watched him swallow. “Okay.”

“No hickeys, also. No marks. Nothing that anyone else will see and know we had sex.”

Mikkel nodded eagerly. Even that, the growing excitement, made just the tiniest bit of fear drop into Arthur’s stomach. _He isn’t going to hurt you, idiot. He would never do that. You know him. Why don’t you trust him?_ But that didn’t matter, to whatever primitive fear center was giving its signal. It didn’t care that Mikkel would ever lay a hand on Arthur. All it cared about was _If he did, you wouldn’t be able to stop him._

“Safe word,” Arthur said.

“Safe word?”

“Safe word,” Arthur agreed, even though it was starting to sound like gibberish from repetition. “We should have a safe word. Or a signal, would a signal be better?”

“We could have both,” Mikkel pointed out.

“Good idea.” Arthur considered. “Okay, here’s the signal.” He reached around to Mikkel’s back and tapped, firmly, three times with his finger. “That means stop, whatever we’re doing. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” There was no hint of humor to his face now. Arthur appreciated that. “Can I pick the safe word?”

“Go ahead. But I have to be able to pronounce it.”

“Okay. How about this.” Mikkel leant forward, slow enough that no part of Arthur wanted to flinch, until his lips were almost brushing his ear. His voice came low, husky on an exhale: _“Unicorns.”_

Arthur pulled back and smacked his shoulder, but they were both grinning so he let it stand. “Alright, safe word is now unicorns. It’s locked in. Try not to forget it.”

“That won’t be hard.”

 _Neither will I, if you start talking about unicorns during sex._ He’d never be able to look at one the same again. He couldn’t imagine Mikkel needing to use a safe word, though. As if Arthur would do something without asking about it first. Not in so many words . . . he told himself he would have to make eye contact, and he could almost be okay with that.

“So when you say you’re a virgin,” Arthur said, to distract himself from his thoughts more than anything, “does that mean no sex at all? Of any kind?”

“Nothing,” Mikkel agreed, back to his shy look. “I touched boobs once, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Arthur said. “I don’t have those.”

“No,” Mikkel agreed.

They considered this.

“Maybe we should just wait until tonight,” Arthur said. “To get. Serious.”

Mikkel smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

Before he could think too much, Arthur pushed himself up onto his knees and swung one around to straddle Mikkel’s lap. Mikkel stared up at him, awed. Power licked at Arthur like a flame. _Like this, do you?_

“I thought . . .” Mikkel’s hands drifted up to his hips and he swallowed. Arthur watched his Adam’s apple bob. “. . . we weren’t serious now.”

“This isn’t serious.” Oh, Mikkel’s _thighs._ Arthur wrapped his arms around his shoulders, smirking against his lips. They balanced each other out, as they always had. “This is just good old-fashioned fun.”

* * *

When they finally pulled apart, Arthur couldn’t believe an hour had passed. How had they been making out for an _hour_? Arthur’s legs were sore from being bent so long. “God,” he said, stretching his legs before standing up. “I feel like I don’t even know what day it is anymore.”

Mikkel looked dazed. “I don’t know what planet this is.”

“Earth, I think it was.” Arthur rubbed a hand over his lips. They felt weird, numb. “You’re getting pretty good at this kissing gig. I’ve trained you well.”

Mikkel was almost too out of it to get the joke. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.”

They parted ways for the first time that day. It felt unnatural, standing in the downstairs bathroom with silence through the house. He wasn’t being watched, but he felt like he was. He looked in the mirror as he washed his hands. His eyeliner wasn’t smudged. His hair wasn’t overly messy. He didn’t look like someone who was planning on having some sort of sex tonight.

He turned off the tap, dried his hands on the towel.

Then he stared at himself in the mirror again. Tipped up his chin, lowered it. Half-turned. Eyed the line of his nose, his jaw, his brow. Counted his freckles. Noted the acne. Altogether: not a disgusting visage, by any means. He’d give his face a solid _passable_ rating. The roundness of his cheeks made him look fat . . . but Mikkel liked them. Every flaw he could find had that knowledge at is end. Mikkel liked it. _Because he likes me._

No. He loved him.

Arthur turned his attention to his clothes. Should he have put on something more impressive than an old pair of jeans and a band shirt? _He’s probably more excited about what’s underneath._ Still, he could’ve maybe worn something that clung a little more, hinted at the full deal. Then again, there was something to the whole _leave it to the imagination_ chestnut. Mikkel was just wearing his usual jeans and a button-up, probably because he’d noticed Arthur mauled him whenever he wore those. Or maybe just because flannel was the first thing he’d grabbed this morning.

 _God, he’s hot._ It was really quite pitiful, how weak he was against it when he actually thought about it. Beauty had always been a kryptonite to him; it was just that beauty to Arthur was not beauty to most others. Francis and Antonio were beautiful, but like paintings in a museum, with that _look but don’t touch_ distance built in. Bookshelves with ladders were beautiful. Morning birdsong was beautiful. The feel of a paperback in his hands was beautiful. And Mikkel, in his entirety.

His shoulders. His arms. The veins on his hands. The skin that stretched between his jaw and his neck when he turned his head. His mouth, his lips, his teeth. Those bright blue eyes, the wrinkles in their corners when he smiled. Oh, that smile, wider than the skies. He was so, so lovely . . .

And he was probably out there, wondering if Arthur was having a breakdown in here.

Out Arthur went. Mikkel was just coming down the stairs. He smiled automatically when he saw Arthur. “Hey,” he said. “That’s a relief. I was worried I dreamed you.”

“You did. I’m a figment of your imagination.”

“Oh yeah?” Mikkel pressed his fingers into his temples. “Then I can make you grow wings.”

Arthur tilted his head. “What sort of wings?”

_If you say angel, I will kill you if I don’t die first._

“Dragon ones,” Mikkel replied. “With scales. And claws.”

Arthur smiled. “Sounds good to me. Can I breathe fire, as well?”

“No way. You’re a storm dragon. You breathe lightning.”

“It’s always lightning with you . . .”

 _Really,_ Arthur thought as he watched Mikkel flex through his best Thor impression, _there’s no reason to be afraid of him at all._

* * *

They were extremely responsible. Arthur helped Mikkel finish editing the research essay he had due on Monday in history. Mikkel helped Arthur make his diagrams for sociology look pretty. They both studied for the anatomy quiz their gym teacher had been dangling over their heads for weeks (Arthur was pretty sure she was just making up the curriculum as she went along, at this point). They even cleaned out their bookbags, shaking them out over the yard to get rid of the crumbs and bits of paper that inevitably collected in the bottom.

When all of that was done, they ordered the pizza. It was too early, really, but there was nothing else to do. Well, there was _something_ , but that was tonight. Arthur sort of regretted asking to postpone. Now he had extra time to think about all the ways it could go. And the ways it could go wrong.

_It won’t. It’ll be fine. It’s just Mikkel Densen._

Mikkel Densen. Denmark’s finest.

They ordered it on speaker, because they both hated talking on the phone and a burden shared was a burden halved. Arthur got peppers and olives on his half, then regretted it when Mikkel said he just wanted meat lover’s for his side. _Now my breath will be worse than his . . ._ But then Mikkel asked for garlic fingers, too, and Arthur didn’t feel so bad.

They set the table while they waited, even though it was just pizza. Mikkel held Arthur up to get the glasses out of the cupboard. “I _can_ reach this, you know,” Arthur said on his way down. “One of these times you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No way.” Mikkel held his arms up and flexed so his biceps pushed at his sleeves. “Look at that.”

“I’m looking at that,” Arthur said. “And if you’d rather _I_ look at _that_ than a chiropractor look at your back, stop picking me up like that.”

“But you said you liked it . . .”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, pausing in setting down the glasses on the table. Mikkel actually looked a little put out. “I do like it.” He hooked a finger into Mikkel’s belt loop. “But I also like that you can stand up straight.”

A faint smile worked its way over Mikkel’s lips and he crouched down, bending his knees. “Maybe if I lift with my legs . . .”

“Mikkel, do _not_ —!”

Which was how Arthur ended up over Mikkel’s shoulder, with the fool parading him around the house like this was a jolly new development. “This is the opposite of easy on your back,” Arthur protested. He didn’t know if he’d ever been carried like this, thrown over a shoulder. Maybe Scott might have done it to him when he was very small. He didn’t actually have any memories of his mother carrying him, even though she’d certainly done it. Frightening, how memories could just vanish like that. Would this day vanish, too, bathed in glee as it was? Was it really the truth? _You can’t save anything?_

Mikkel put him down long before the pizza guy arrived, thankfully. They both went to the door, and Arthur again found himself thinking what a relief that was, not having to face the world alone—and how spoiled he was now. He’d toughened himself up to things like that, on the outside at least. It didn’t matter how shattered he was on the inside, so long as he _looked_ confident, and Ludwig seemed to think he pulled it off well. Now, though, he’d gotten so used to having Mikkel with him, could he even go back to solitude? Had he built up self-esteem, or was it just attached to his boyfriend? Maybe Arthur just couldn’t build it at all. Maybe he truly was broken, irreparably so.

“Arthur.”

He looked up.

Mikkel was watching him with knowing eyes. “You’re thinking bad thoughts.”

Arthur knew he looked guilty, because that’s how he felt. This was a good night. He even _wanted_ it to be a good night. _Stop thinking bad things. Stop ruining everything. Just pretend to be functional for twenty-four hours, please._

Mikkel pulled out a chair and herded Arthur into it. Then he took Arthur’s hand and put a slice of pizza into it. Then he reached his other hand round to nudge Arthur’s mouth open.

“I think I can take it from here,” Arthur told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

Mikkel smirked. “Good.” He grabbed a slice of his own and hopped up onto the table, knocking their food together. “Skål.”

“Cheers,” Arthur said, more than half-hearted. Three-quarters-hearted, at least.

Mikkel made such a mess of his first bite Arthur couldn’t possibly feel self-conscious about eating. When they were on their second slices, Mikkel turned and hung his legs over Arthur’s lap. Arthur rested his plate on Mikkel’s shins. Mikkel wiped sauce off Arthur’s cheek with his thumb and put it in his mouth.

“You’re kind of gross sometimes, you know that?”

Mikkel grinned. “No way. I could be way grosser.” He grabbed the ludicrously large bottle of Diet Coke. “I could chug this and—”

“No, that’s quite alright.” Arthur held up his glass. The less Mikkel had in common with Scott, the better. “You can top this off, though. Thank you, bartender. What did you say _thank you_ was? Tak?”

“Yes.” Mikkel always got that sun-bright grin when Arthur spoke Danish. That was one reason Arthur avoided doing it too much. Selfish or stupid, but he didn’t want it to lose its novelty. “You’re welcome.”

Mikkel ate his entire half of the pizza and a hand of garlic fingers, but Arthur only managed two slices before he was too full to go on. “You win,” he said, slumping in his chair. He tugged at a stray thread in the hem of Mikkel’s pant leg. “Your stomach must take up ninety percent of your insides.”

“I got a good metabolism,” Mikkel said proudly. “I think. Metabolism. Izzzzm. Your words.” He shook his head. “They’re so silly.”

“You’re the thing that’s silly.” Arthur trailed his hands up Mikkel’s legs, onto his knees. He had the clearest memory of his health teacher years ago teaching them that the kneecap wasn’t actually attached to anything. Arthur remembered being overly aware of his knees the rest of the day, and checking for them the next morning, paranoid his kneecaps might float away.

Mikkel was looking down at him, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching Arthur, and his hands.

Arthur felt how warm he was through the denim.

“We should.” Slowly, Arthur managed to stop touching him. “We should clean up.”

Mikkel thumped down from the table. “Yeah.”

They tidied up in silence. Arthur washed the dishes. Mikkel dried them.

Arthur wiped off the table. Mikkel watched him.

“Should we . . .” Arthur slid his hands into his pockets, just to do something with them. “Brush our teeth, or something?”

One side of Mikkel’s mouth tugged outward. “Do you want to?”

Arthur wondered if he was actually talking about teeth. “Well . . . I don’t want to make you taste everything I just ate . . .”

Mikkel stepped over to him, the other half of his mouth smiling too. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I was eating pizza too, you know.”

“I know.” Arthur inclined his head, staring at one of the buttons on Mikkel’s shirt. _God, God, God._ Even after _everything_ , he was still acting like this. It was a cliff, and he just had to jump off, but he couldn’t make himself do it. “I feel like I’m going to make you hate me.”

Hands cupped his face and gently urged him to look up. Mikkel’s eyes were soft now, his smile small. “You are crazy. You think you can make me hate you? No. You can try, but it will not work. So there.”

Arthur only knew the tears were coming when Mikkel’s face blurred. “But I don’t get you. _I_ don’t get to be with _you._ That’s just not how it works.”

“I don’t care.” Words firmer than the floor beneath their feet. “I don’t care. I want you.”

 _I want you._ Arthur closed his eyes. _I want you._

“. . . Do you want me?”

The whisper had Arthur laughing silently. Unbelievable. “I need you.”

And then they were kissing. This was familiar and foreign simultaneously: Arthur knew this warm closeness from their past kisses, but he hadn’t met this new hungry Mikkel before. Mikkel kissed him, and kissed him hard, and their tongues were at war and _still_ he wasn’t close enough. Arthur had no time to stifle a tiny squeak of surprise when Mikkel lifted him up.

Arthur’s legs went around his waist. One of Mikkel’s hands held his back; one held his ass.

This was something out of a movie, out of a post on Tumblr. This wasn’t his life. Right?

Mikkel carried him upstairs. He saw the hallway, then the walls of his bedroom. Then his back hit the mattress. It shifted beneath Mikkel’s weight as he knelt over him. Arthur stared up at him, breathless, throbbing in more places than he could count. Mikkel was out of breath, too, looking down at him. His eyes looked darker somehow. All of him did. He looked like someone who got what he wanted.

Arthur felt like someone who would give him what he wanted.

_No pressure the first time. Rehearsal. No list of demands. It’s okay._

He reached for him.

* * *

“Mmm—”

“Wait, are you—”

“Don’t stop.”

“Arthur . . .”

“Please . . .”

“Okay.”

“There—”

“Yeah . . .”

“. . .”

“. . . Fuck.”

“I know.”

* * *

Part of Arthur wanted to just lie there with him, afterward. A large part of him, in fact. But it was a very persuasive minority that told him, _Get up. Stand up, walk out of this room, and take off these pants that you just ejaculated into._

So that was a thing.

“I guess . . .” The words wandered out of Arthur uncertainly, breaking the not-quite-silence of their slowly evening breaths. “I guess you were right. About the first time and the. Not lasting very long.”

“Yeah . . .” Mikkel was still staring at the ceiling like he wasn’t quite sure where he was. “Guess so.”

Arthur was genuinely curious how long they’d lasted. It felt, honestly, like about thirty seconds from the moment he thought _something could happen right now_ to the moment something happened and left its sticky consequences in his briefs. They’d kissed, and Mikkel had started grinding into him, and then . . . well, that pretty much covered it. No hands had gone below the belt. They hadn’t gotten the chance. Arthur still hadn’t even _seen_ anything, for God’s sake. They were two idiots catching their breath after doing the thing that always happened in stories and the characters laughed and said _we’re like teenagers._

So maybe this was a good thing. It certainly didn’t feel like a bad thing.

_Am I still a virgin?_

He felt pretty virgin-y, still. But then again, he had just officially made his boyfriend come. So he was infinitely naughtier now than he was thirty-odd seconds ago. And that felt . . . pleasant. Quite pleasant, as a matter of fact.

It took some doing, but Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, then standing. He cringed a bit. “I think I’m gonna shower.”

Mikkel sat up, too. His jeans were lighter; Arthur could see the dark spot he’d made. Proof on top of proof that this was real. Temporary, but real in these incredible hours. “Can I come?”

Arthur stared at him.

“With you?” Mikkel specified. “To the shower?”

“Oh.” Arthur hadn’t considered that a possibility. Well, he _had_ , obviously; almost every shower he’d had in the past eight months had featured at least a little imagining that Mikkel was with him. He’d imagined washing broad shoulders, the bumps of his spine . . . Arthur nodded. “Sure.”

The walk to the bathroom could have felt like the journey to an execution, but Mikkel kept him out of his head. He slipped a hand into Arthur’s back pocket and snuck him a smile. “That was a good first time,” he declared. “I liked it. Did you?”

“Eight of out ten,” Arthur said, which had Mikkel laughing high and disbelieving.

“Why eight?”

“Didn’t last long enough,” Arthur told him, flicking the bathroom light on. “And I made stupid noises.”

“No,” Mikkel said.

“I did. I sounded like a—I don’t know what. A dying cat, maybe. Or, I don’t know. A piglet.”

“Arthur.” Mikkel grinned, beyond delight. “A _piglet._ ”

“You’re not safe either,” Arthur said, now that Mikkel knew he was joking. “You sounded like a bear. Or a boar.”

His eyes went crinkly. “What’s a boar?”

“Like, a wild pig. With a bad attitude.”

Mikkel’s laugh never got old. He had actually sounded a bit like a bear. He’d done this sort of grunty growl noise at the very end, when he was shuddering against Arthur. Arthur’d kept his eyes closed toward the end, because he didn’t want to see Mikkel’s face and then worry how stupid his own had looked in the final seconds. The sound was nice, though. Very caveman. Very good.

Without warning or lead-in, Mikkel pulled his shirt over his head. Arthur stared at the expanse of exposed skin. He’d seen this before, most of it, in the changing room. He was on the way toward chest hair, but it was blond so it wasn’t so overbearing as dark hair could be. Arthur had seen Gilbert changing with Mikkel, so he knew what his chest _could_ look like, but he didn’t mind its current state. Big muscles were overrated.

“Like a bandaid, I guess,” Arthur said. Mikkel nodded.

Off came the shirt, joining Mikkel’s on the hamper. He watched Mikkel’s eyes devour him. Then he watched them come back up to his face, amused. “Are you sucking your stomach in?”

“. . . No.”

Mikkel chuckled. “You don’t have any stomach to suck. Don’t do that.”

So Arthur tried not to pay so much attention to trying to make himself invisible. It didn’t help that Mikkel was still staring at every detail of his abdomen, though. He didn’t have that dark look to his eyes, though. His face was bright, open, like he was the curious discoverer of a new world.

“You have more freckles than I thought.”

“You have more hair than I thought.”

Mikkel held a sheepish hand over his heart. “Manly man.”

“Oh, very.”

It was his turn, so Mikkel took off his jeans. Except he didn’t just take off his jeans, he took off his underwear too, in one fell swoop. Then, when he got to the end of his legs, he took off his socks too, so he was stood there naked with a pile of boneless clothes at his feet.

“Sorry,” he said. “It was too much suspense.”

Arthur’s mouth was open, so he closed it. _Well. There it is._ He looked. And he kept looking.

“Sorry,” he echoed, eventually. “I’m staring at you.”

“I know,” Mikkel said. He was smiling. “That’s the idea.”

 _And the problem._ But it was only fair. So Arthur unbuttoned and unzipped and untrussed. He’d never felt more awkward than the few seconds he spent bent over, half hiding himself, as he tugged at his mismatched socks. Then he stood straight, and they both took each other’s bodies in, and Arthur felt weird for not smiling but then felt even weirder when he did smile.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Arthur finally said.

“Me neither,” Mikkel agreed.

“You’re not circumcised,” Arthur told him, as if he didn’t know. “That’s fun.”

“You are,” Mikkel said, through a smile that was somehow embarrassed and not at the same time. “That’s cool.”

Arthur had no pockets to put his hands into. Mikkel was actually biting his lip, which was the most adorable and impossible thing Arthur had seen in his entire life. He still couldn’t believe that Mikkel could get nervous. That Mikkel could be _shy_ was just . . .

“We should probably shower,” Arthur said.

“Yes,” Mikkel said, like it was the best idea he’d heard all day.

Arthur stepped in first, then Mikkel. It seemed like there should have been more room than this, but Mikkel was paradoxical like that: there was never enough room for him, but when Arthur shared his space he could never get close enough to him. Now Mikkel tugged the curtain over, plunging them into half-shadow. Arthur reached up to adjust the faucet.

“Is this good?”

“Maybe. Try it.”

It wasn’t, but that was alright. Arthur stood under the stream while it hit Mikkel and smoothed the bar of soap over his chest, down over his ribs, through the trail of hair that would normally vanish under his waistline. There were no clothes now, just skin skin skin. Arthur washed his thighs, but—his gaze cut upward. Mikkel was watching him, with fresh _wanting_ in his eyes. The warmth was stirring them both. Arthur knew what to do about it, knew what he wanted to do. But with eyes on him . . .

Suddenly—as suddenly as was possible without slipping and breaking something—their places were swapped. The water was blocked by Mikkel’s back; Arthur was now facing the opposite wall. Mikkel’s hands were warm, fingers clingy against the wet on his hips. The sound of the water changed slightly. Mikkel’s mouth touched Arthur’s ear.

_“Do you still like me behind you?”_

It was too much for him to speak, so he just nodded. _This, yes. Please. Yes._

Mikkel washed his back. And his front. And he touched . . . he . . .

It couldn’t be dirty. Not in the shower. Not with Mikkel. He made it light-hearted, their exploration of each other’s bodies. They touched and they smiled and they didn’t so much look at each other as silently ask ( _Okay? Good? More?_ ) and answer ( _Yes. Yes. Yes._ ) and celebrate. Mikkel’s body wasn’t a terrifying thing, because it was the thing he lived inside. This, Arthur realized, was a way he could show Mikkel precisely how he felt without tarnishing it through speech. This was the most honest he could ever be.

They didn’t do anything substantial in the shower; neither of them had enough balance for it. They went to Arthur’s room instead—drying off first so they wouldn’t drip all down the hallway—and Arthur had the day’s millionth mini heart attack when he realized Mikkel was somehow even hotter with a towel on. Then the towels came off, and they were on the bed, and their hands were on each other again. It was different without the water. It actually hurt a little, so Mikkel turned away to get the lube, which was a sight Arthur would have little trouble keeping in his memory. And then . . .

* * *

As it turned out, lube was super fun to rub between your fingers and thumb. Extremely satisfying.

As it turned out, putting things in his mouth wasn’t horrible. Probably the shower beforehand helped, but still.

As it turned out, pornstars were superb at making positions look natural. Arthur had never been the kind of person to giggle about the number 69, but he was now.

As it turned out, Mikkel was being serious when he said Arthur couldn’t make him hate him. Accidentally kneeing him in the head prompted only laughter and a playful slap to his ass, which was something he’d be thinking about until he died.

As it turned out, the most awkward thing about _intercrural sex_ was the name.

The most beautiful thing, once the tissues were thrown in the wastepaper basket and they’d collapsed on the bed and pulled the blankets up over each other and Mikkel had snuggled him close and peppered the side of his face in kisses, was the last moment.

The dark, the quiet, the warmth.

That last moment of pure, safe happiness.

Arthur knew, even though there was no way to be sure. He was.

This would be the last time they’d fall asleep together.

* * *

Arthur woke up cold. He’d rolled away from Mikkel in his sleep—they’d started off cuddled together, but Arthur was a side sleeper to the end—and now he only had a bit of blanket over his legs. He grabbed at it, pulling as hard as he dared. Mikkel wasn’t snoring, but he did make a noise when Arthur did that. _“Mmrrmmm.”_

“Mrm,” Arthur replied, tugging again.

Mikkel rolled over. His arm went around Arthur and the blankets went over him; he was enveloped in warmth. They both sighed. Arthur’s eyelids drooped. He could fall back to sleep here and now, which was a rarity for him. He’d always had a tenuous relationship with sleep. Mikkel was the opposite, naturally. Slept like a sinking brick, woke like a hibernating bear.

It was right about then that Arthur felt distinctly poked, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t even thought to worry about morning wood. Well, here it was. Life was pretty matter-of-fact, when you didn’t have anxiety scribbling all over everything with a highlighter. Without that, you could actually appreciate the colors.

Arthur waited for Mikkel to wake. That whole _wake up blowjob_ thing seemed a bit . . . nonconsensual when you were the one lying awake next to your unassuming partner. Besides, this in itself was a privilege: he’d never been this close to Mikkel while he was asleep. He looked so peaceful, but so serious too. He wasn’t smiling. His lips actually looked a little pouty. Arthur ghosted his fingertips over them. They were chapped, just slightly. Arthur’s were worse. If he tried to do the massive smiles Mikkel pulled off, his lips would probably split. He could fit that much happy inside him. He just couldn’t show it without hurting himself.

Arthur felt Mikkel’s face moving under his hand before he saw those blue eyes open. “Good morning,” Mikkel said, voice thin as he stretched one arm up over his head. It came back down around Arthur, on top of the covers this time. “How did you sleep?”

 _How domestic._ “Fine. You?”

“Good.” He shifted against Arthur, and they both felt it. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Arthur glanced down the bed, then back at Mikkel. “Did you want something done about that?”

One second of confusion, then a smirky smile. “Sure. If you want to.”

The shower had helped the taste, but it still wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. There was something tantalizingly taboo about it, even though there was nothing new about a guy sucking off his boyfriend on a Sunday morning. It was taboo in Arthur’s life, anyway, and it had power tangled into it because of that. Power and confidence, in an odd sort of way. _Well, not odd. Not really._ He was the one turning Mikkel on, after all. He was the one making him moan and squeeze fistfuls of blanket. If he was worth that much . . . well, that wasn’t nothing. It was something substantial, as far as Arthur was concerned. Pride swirled inside him when Mikkel pushed him back urgently.

“Sorry,” he said, after a moment of gasping. “I didn’t think you would want . . .”

“No,” Arthur agreed. “Not really. Thanks.”

Mikkel nodded. And smiled. “I love you so much.”

Yesterday was over. Today was Back To Reality.

_Tomorrow?_

Arthur just smiled and got up. He expected Mikkel to watch him get dressed, but he got up too and only brushed his hand over the small of Arthur’s back before he retreated to his own room. Arthur slowed, watching him go. The silence didn’t feel cozy anymore.

Mikkel beat him to the kitchen. He was pouring himself a bowl of cereal, so Arthur got himself a bowl and pushed it beside Mikkel’s. He shook some out into Arthur’s bowl without glancing up. Arthur got the milk out, splashed some into Mikkel’s bowl and then his own. Mikkel got the spoons. Their fingers brushed when Arthur took it from him. But Mikkel did not look at him. _He hates me already._

“I want to ask you something,” Mikkel said. “But I don’t want you mad at me.”

Arthur glanced up, surprised. “I thought you were the mad one.”

“No.” Mikkel looked at him. Serious, but oddly so, like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. “Well. Maybe. I just want to know if you were, using me, sort of.”

“Using you?” Arthur stared, taken aback. “For what? For sex?”

Mikkel shrugged, but it looked like a nod.

“No, of course not. Why would you ever think that?”

“Because you didn’t say it back.”

The response came so fast, Arthur knew it was a fresh wound. Obviously it was; he’d just inflicted it, less than five minutes ago. _See. You can’t live like this. You’ll hurt him, no matter what you do._ Arthur shook his head again, looking down at the cereal going soggy in his bowl. “Just because I didn’t say it,” he said softly, “doesn’t mean I don’t think it. Or feel it. I _do._ You know I do. You have to know that by now.”

“I thought.” Something was straining in Mikkel’s voice, a faint sort of whine. Arthur couldn’t loathe that. Mikkel deserved to whine, if he genuinely thought Arthur was _using him for sex._ “I don’t know. I’m just being—weird. Sensitive. I guess.”

Arthur looked up. Mikkel actually wasn’t looking at him, he was just pushing his spoon through his cereal. Once again, Arthur had forgotten he wasn’t the only person who was not bulletproof. Where there was nervous, there was sensitive. Maybe he _had_ been using him, in a faint, twisted sort of way. He kept seeing him as something he wasn’t, something flawless and brave and expectant of things Arthur couldn’t deliver. Mikkel wasn’t like that. He was just a person. That discovery had been what Arthur started to fall for, way back when. How did he keep forgetting?

_Be honest with him. Does he not deserve that? Why do you think it’s a good idea to lie to someone you love?_

Today was real. Today was the consequences.

“I didn’t say it because I hate you or I was using you. I do love you.” Arthur forced himself to keep his eyes on Mikkel, only Mikkel. This was his punishment. This was what they both deserved. “But you’re leaving. I don’t want you to get any more attached than you already are. I don’t want us to be . . .” He didn’t know how to phrase this horrid web around his heart. “I just—I almost wish I had done something to make you hate me. I should do that, so you won’t feel so bad when you leave. So you won’t miss me. Because I’m not worth being missed. It’s not worth it to you. It’s—it’s stupid! This is stupid, what we’re trying to do. It’s pointless.” He sat back in his chair, drained just from that much honesty. “It’s doomed.”

Mikkel was looking at him now. This was an expression Arthur hadn’t seen since Feliciano’s party, and before that the very beginning of the year. It was fiercer than those glares, though, because it was at someone he cared about. “Are you saying this to make me mad at you? Because it could work. But I don’t want it to.”

“No, I’m saying this because it’s true. You’re going to go back to Denmark, you’ll date other boys or girls and you’ll get married and have a great, handsome life. But I’m not part of that. You’re lying to yourself if you think I am.”

“Why not?” Arthur could tell Mikkel wanted to grab him, but he didn’t. He just leant over the table, gripping the edge with white-knuckled hands. “Why do you think it’s impossible? It’s not. Just because I go back to Denmark doesn’t mean I won’t come back here. We have phones. We have the internet. I would write letters to you if I had to.”

That was a splinter he’d never be able to pick out of his heart. Mikkel, tortured by words, painstakingly piecing them together for someone across an ocean. Checking the mail every day like a soldier’s sweetheart. It would—and had—make for an excellent story. But it wasn’t real.

“It won’t work,” Arthur said. “We’re just kids. It won’t work.”

“We’re teenagers,” Mikkel protested. “We will be adults in a year. School will end—”

“Then we’ll be going to university,” Arthur cut in. “Or I will, at least. I don’t know what you think your life will look like, but I can’t go chasing young love. I have to go to school and get a job. That’s what you should do, too.”

“I can do that here.” Mikkel pushed closer, his chair groaning across the floor. “Or I can do it at home, and come here after. Do you think a few years will make me stop loving you?”

 _More like five-plus years._ But that was just fluff, at this point. “Yes, I do. It _should._ Don’t you hear how silly this sounds? We’re not bound by fate or destiny or whatever. I’m sure there are a hundred people out there, just waiting to meet you and fall in love with you. You’re easy to love.”

Something sick had come into Mikkel’s eyes. Something cold, something stricken. “Is that what you think?”

Arthur swallowed. His throat wasn’t so sure of itself, now that he’d seen that face. “It’s what I said.”

Mikkel stared at him with that terrible look for an endless moment. Arthur almost wished he would shove him or shout at him. Anything would be better than those cold blue eyes. Then Mikkel pushed to his feet, yanked on his shoes, and slammed the door behind him.

The silence was deafening. Arthur felt more rattled than the house.

Should he go after him? It would be a wonderful thing, for Mrs. Kirkland to come home and Arthur to have to tell her that the kid she’d been made responsible of was now missing in action. Because of him. But Mikkel couldn’t get into very much trouble around here, surely.

Arthur wiped tears from his eyes.

Probably he was fine. Just going for a walk. Just blowing off steam. Just being sensitive somewhere else.

Arthur wiped more tears from his eyes.

He was just looking for comfort from someone who would actually give it to him.

Just looking for someone who wouldn’t insist on breaking his heart.

Arthur put his face in his hands.

_This was supposed to be the easier thing to do._

Like ripping off a bandaid. Right? Quick and painful, then over with. Much neater than distance growing between them slowly, falling out of love, then the inevitable _I’ve been talking to someone else. What we had was great, but it’s just so hard, you know? What is there for us to talk about, anyway? Love and connection come from shared experiences, did you know that? And we have none anymore. So I guess it was just inevitable for this to happen. You should have ended this earlier, Arthur. You would’ve saved us both the heartbreak now._

Arthur didn’t feel saved.

He threw out the ruined cereal and sat on the floor against the cupboards until he could breathe without shaking so much. It was a lot harder to build himself back up on the inside when he didn’t have arms holding the outside together.

A text from Gilbert.

**Hey, Mick’s here**

**You have a fight?**

**Yeah**

**Anything I can do?**

**No.**

**But thank you.**

Barely a minute later, Arthur’s phone was ringing. But it wasn’t Gilbert’s number.

“Are you okay?” Francis asked, with that silk-soft voice. A soothing balm.

“Why are you calling me?” Arthur asked. The rough, uneven words were answer enough.

“Gil texted me. Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t said to myself.”

“Okay. Then do you want to talk about something else?”

And, actually, Arthur did. He really, really needed a break from the voices in his head. Francis’s voice made for a wonderful substitute. “Yeah. I think I do. Talk to me about something. Anything.”

So Francis talked to him about what he was painting, and how he thought Antonio was getting better, and how he wanted to plant a peach tree in his yard, but if he planted it young it wouldn’t grow up in time for him to enjoy it, and then he’d have to come back home after university just to see it, and what if he was fighting with his parents by then, and what if they had sold their house, and he had to walk onto some stranger’s doorstep and knock on their door and say _hi, you don’t know me, but listen, I have a lot of emotional investment in your peaches_?

Arthur still sounded like he’d been crying, but he was smiling, at least.

Then he heard a car door close.

“Mum’s home,” Arthur said. He almost fell back down again when he stood up; he hadn’t realized how long he’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor. There were probably things left on the list that he should have done again, but he couldn’t even think of it. His brain was a foggy mess.

“Okay. I’ll text you later,” Francis said, still gentle. “It’ll be alright, mon ami.”

Arthur hung up and went to open the door for his mother.

She looked well-rested and bright, but her smile faded when she saw him, which of course just added to the _horrible_ inside him. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said, just so she wouldn’t think someone was dead. “We just had an argument.”

“You and Mikkel?” She let him take her bag from her, reluctantly. “Why? I’ve never heard about any fighting between you two.”

Arthur carried the bag to her room, mostly so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “Because he thinks we’ll still be together when he leaves. And I don’t. So he got mad and he left. He’s at Gil’s house.”

She was right behind him. The moment he set the bag down on her bed, she had her hands on him. She took his shoulders and turned him around, looking him in the face. “You told him you won’t be together anymore, when the school year ends?”

“Pretty much.” He was glad to be so drained. It meant his voice wasn’t shaking anymore, at least.

“Why? You don’t think he’ll still love you?”

“No. I just . . . it’s a waste.” He was repeating himself, he knew he was. This was getting closer to the definition of insanity. “He shouldn’t bother waiting until he can be with me again, after college or whatever. He should just live his life and be happy. And we’re so young, it’s just—high school sweethearts hardly ever stay together, even when they live in the same place. There are no odds in our favor. I just wanted to save him the heartbreak.”

“Oh, Arthur . . .” Her eyes were soft as dew-speckled moss. “Sweetheart . . .”

_Sweetheart?_

“Is this because of your father?”

Arthur reeled back. Not even from the question itself, but from the fact that it was said almost precisely the same way it had been said on Christmas morning. The brief talk they’d had about him being gay was still a pleasant memory— _you’ll always be my son and I’ll always love you, no matter what you are_ —but that one question had been a blemish. It was the first thing she’d asked him. _Is this because of your father?_ Then even she must have realized how gross it was, to think that he was some freak trying to find a father figure in someone _his own age._ But there was no course correction now. She just stared at him with sympathetic wrinkles in her face, waiting.

“Nothing is because of him,” Arthur said. “I don’t even remember him.”

“Maybe that’s why,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “Are you worried you’ll end up like me? I’ve had this same conversation with Scott and Dylan, you know. Dylan said he might never date at all, and it was because I’d shown him that it ended like this. Alone.”

Arthur couldn’t say anything. He hadn’t known . . .

“If that’s why you feel this way,” she went on, “I can only beg you not to. Don’t, for your sake and Mikkel’s and anyone else who might come into your life. Just because it didn’t work for me doesn’t mean you’re doomed to fail as well. And I don’t consider this a failure. I’m not miserable by myself. Who knows, perhaps when you leave the nest, I’ll find someone new. I just don’t feel the need to be with someone right now.” She smoothed the shoulders of his shirt. “But if you want to be with Mikkel, then be with him, dear. Don’t push him away because you might someday have to let him go. If you live your life that way, you’ll never do anything. You won’t live at all.”

The dying in the bed, the living holding on.

“I know you like to say you’re a pessimist—”

“Realist,” Arthur corrected, and sniffled.

Mrs. Kirkland smiled lightly. “Realist, then. But I know you. And you know you, even if you pretend not to. You know you want to be happy. Mikkel wants you to be happy. And _I_ want you to be happy.” She brushed a thumb over his cheek, catching a tear he hadn’t felt fall. “Don’t let anyone take your happiness from you, Arthur. Especially not yourself.”

There wasn’t anything to be said to that. It had been so long since he’d been brave enough to breach the distance between them, though, that Arthur did have to ask: “Can I hug you?”

Mrs. Kirkland shook her head, but it wasn’t at him. She wrapped her arms around him, tight, squeezing him hard enough that he could still feel it even after she let him go. “Don’t ask me that again. You can always hug me. I stopped hugging you boys because I assumed you were too _grown up_ for it.”

“Scott is,” Arthur said. “I’m not.”

She tutted, but she smiled too. “Well, I’m glad.” She patted his head. “Now, do you want to call Mikkel?”

Cold fear in his chest. “Not really.”

A knowing look came into her eyes. “Alright. I’m going to unpack and get changed, and then I think I’d like to bake some cookies. Would you care to assist?”

Arthur would and he did.

* * *

Neither Mikkel nor Gilbert texted Arthur, but Gilbert dropped Mikkel off while Mrs. Kirkland was making supper. Arthur was in his room; he saw the beater pull into the driveway. He was pretty sure he could see Antonio in the backseat, but he didn’t take the passenger seat even after Mikkel had vacated it. Arthur didn’t watch Antonio, though. He watched Mikkel. God, he loved just looking at him. Didn’t that _mean_ something? _What’s wrong with you?_ Arthur was ruining things by ruining things by ruining things. Just looking at Mikkel made him happy.

It was supremely cocky of him, really, to think he had the power to cut through heartstrings wound _this_ tightly around that Danish bastard.

He listened, but he couldn’t make out what Mikkel said to Mrs. Kirkland. He didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs, either. It was just quiet, and then it was quiet with Mikkel standing in his doorway.

Arthur sat up on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” Mikkel said. “I shouldn’t have run away like that. That was immature.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Arthur said. “Running away is more mature than speaking in anger.”

Mikkel shrugged. He looked weirdly lanky all of a sudden, more lanky than normal. His hands seemed out of place. He started to put them in his pockets, then held onto his elbows instead. He still looked like a model, just an uncomfortable one.

“I should be apologizing,” Arthur told him. “I’m going to, right now. Even if you hate me—”

“I don’t.”

“Or want to break up with me—”

“I don’t.”

_See. Be kind to him. He loves you, you fuckwit._

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, lifting his chin. “I thought I knew what was best, but I didn’t. I just . . . I was lying to myself. I thought I was doing it to save us, but I was probably just trying to punish myself again. Thinking you deserve someone better, or whatever, the same old thing. I don’t know why you aren’t sick of me yet, honestly. I’m pretty terrible.”

Mikkel smiled. Not a broken smile. Just a smile with a hairline fracture. “You are. But I still love you. _You_ deserve better, too, you know.”

“Everybody deserves better,” Arthur said. “Everybody deserves better than everybody.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Mikkel agreed. He knew what he was talking about, when it mattered.

“You’re closer to perfect than I am,” Arthur pointed out.

Mikkel shook his head. “I don’t care how close to perfect you are. You’re perfect _for me._ ”

No words offered themselves to Arthur now. There were no nearby mirrors in which to check, but he was quite sure all he had going for him was a sappy idiot grin.

Mikkel came over to the bed, sitting down beside him. His body recognized Mikkel’s; he felt warmer from the closeness, like the particles that made him were moving faster, like he was flecks of iron allured by a magnet. He leaned into Mikkel’s side. Mikkel leaned back into him.

“I’m sorry you felt like I was using you, too,” Arthur said quietly.

“Don’t worry about that. I was being weird.” Mikkel rested his head against Arthur’s. “I hate that guy. He fucks stuff up. He fights people at parties and slams doors and scares his boyfriend.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Arthur lied. He took his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Mikkel whispered. He twined their fingers and lifted Arthur’s hand to kiss the back of it.

They breathed.

“You smell very clean,” Arthur commented. The pause hadn’t _needed_ to be filled, but it had felt a bit askance, like a vase a few flowers short.

“I showered at Gil’s.” Mikkel turned his head so his lips were against Arthur’s forehead. “He said I’ll be sore tomorrow. Toni was impressed.”

Arthur closed his eyes. He could feel Mikkel’s smile; he hoped Mikkel could hear his own. “Well, as long as Toni was happy, it was all worth it in the end.”

He’d miss Mikkel’s laugh the most.

* * *

Arthur was wiping the stray toothpaste off his mouth when he heard it. He didn’t recognize it at first; he thought it was the muffled sounds of Mikkel watching a video in his room. But no, it was too repetitive for that, and further away. Then he knew: it was his phone, ringing.

No one called him, unless something was wrong.

He hurried out. Mikkel was standing in his doorway, forehead furrowed in concern. Arthur snatched his phone from its place charging on his bedside table. Gilbert’s name, on his phone twice in one day. He swiped to answer the call and held it to his ear.

“Arthur?”

For a purely illogical second, Arthur thought _it must be a wrong number_ because he couldn’t comprehend a voice coming through the phone that was not Gilbert’s. But the second after that he realized it was Ludwig’s voice, thin and shaken. _Something happened to Gil._

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Toni.”

_Toni._

“He—we thought he was just drunk, he wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but—but then we found the pill bottle, and—”

“What pills?” Arthur blurted, then hated himself for it. Mikkel’s eyes widened.

“Dad’s, for his back—he wouldn’t wake up—Toni, I mean—so we’re going to the hospital. He’s already gone, in an ambulance.” He was talking way too fast, almost overlapping himself, but then he stopped. Arthur heard someone else speak, and quiet road noise. “We’re on our way there. Gil’s driving. He says he should have been more careful—”

“Tell him it’s not his fault,” Arthur said, firm. “And tell him we’ll . . . we’ll be there. In ten minutes. Or fifteen. Something. We’ll be there.”

“Okay.” A pause, indistinct voices. “He says okay. We’ll see you—”

“Wait.” Arthur glanced up at Mikkel, who was standing close to him now, holding him from behind. “Does Francis know?”

It was like a bullet wound, watching Mikkel’s eyes darken with sorrow.

“Yes,” Ludwig said. “I called him first. He . . . he’s on his way, too.”

That was the best that could be said, Arthur knew. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you shortly.”

He hung up. How adult he sounded, when he felt the same fear he’d felt in elementary school when Roderich had a seizure in the middle of math. They’d all been herded out of the classroom and given an explanation that everything was okay and they could spend the rest of math time on a card for Roderich.

That didn’t happen anymore. No one was going to take care of things. The only thing that stood between them and destroying themselves was themselves.

Arthur turned around in Mikkel’s arms and buried his face in his chest. Just for a moment. Just long enough that he knew he was alright, they were alright. Mikkel’s arms tightened around him. Just for a moment. Just long enough that they knew they were stable enough to go and try to help with something truly broken.

Mrs. Kirkland let them take the car. She covered her mouth with her hand when Arthur told her what had happened, and she told them to be careful, as if fate was cruel enough to let two teenagers die in a car accident on the way to see their friend who’d just tried to kill himself.

Mikkel didn’t say anything the whole way to the hospital. He just sat where he’d thrown himself into the seat, one leg drawn up, his knuckles pressed into his lips, all of him looking haunted.

Arthur just kept seeing Antonio as a kid. He could see all of the juniors as kids, if he tried hard enough. Francis tantrumming on the floor with his snowsuit all tangled around his legs. Gilbert sent to the nurse’s office for the hundredth time with a sunburn or sore eyes or any of his other countless medical quirks. Antonio, always smiling, always laughing, always with his hand in the air even if his answer was wrong.

_He was always so happy._

That’s what everybody said about kids who died.

Arthur had never been to the emergency side of the hospital. They got lost on the way, despite the arrows on the walls. Mikkel wouldn’t let go of his hand. Arthur didn’t complain.

Finally, there they were: Gilbert and Ludwig, sitting on a little bench along the wall. That struck Arthur, of all things: why just the wooden bench? Why not padded chairs, like in the waiting room? Were they even allowed to sit right here? But they were. Gilbert stood up when he saw them. Arthur saw tiny red marks scattered over his biceps; he’d been digging his fingernails into his skin.

“Fuck,” Gilbert said, which seemed vaguely sacrilegious in a hospital. “God. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Arthur told him, because he was in the same boat.

“I knew he wasn’t doing good,” Gilbert said anyway. “I should have been watching him—you even told me so.” He gestured to Mikkel, then let his hand slap down against his thigh. “Jesus. I shouldn’t have trusted him. He was saying weird shit, I should have just asked what he meant by it, but I . . .” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I guess I didn’t wanna know. And now look where we are.”

Mikkel winced visibly, but he didn’t say anything, just bowed his head as if he could feel the pain in Gilbert’s eyes. Arthur squeezed his hand, but he knew it was a poor consolation in the face of this nightmare.

He was just opening his mouth to ask where Franics was when he appeared, walking down the hall with his arms hugged around himself. He was wearing a plush sweater and pajama bottoms patterned with smiling ice cream cones, and his face looked ghoulish under the fluorescents.

“They pumped his stomach,” he reported wearily. “They said he should be okay. But he might not wake up for a while.” Gilbert put his arm around him and Francis leaned into the touch, misery darkening his eyes. “They told me he has to stay in a clinic until they’re sure he won’t try it again. They’re going to evaluate him and medicate him.”

Arthur knew what they were all picturing: Antonio in a chair with a blanket over his lap, eyes glazed over, all the sharpness of his happiness and sadness shaved off by pills they forced down his throat. But maybe that was an unrealistic image. Maybe this was a really good thing for Antonio. Maybe this would turn his life around, for the better.

“His parents are in there with him,” Francis added. “They said we can’t come in to be with him. They said it’s a _family matter._ ” His voice hardened and Arthur was shocked to see plain hatred on his face. “It is. They’re the reason it happened.”

Gilbert rubbed Francis’s arm. “But he’s safe now. That’s the main thing.”

Arthur and Mikkel nodded. Ludwig, too. Francis looked at them all and sighed, but surrendered. “I know. But I still want to stay. They might let me see him when he wakes up, if he asks for me.”

No one said anything about there being school tomorrow. That didn’t matter anymore.

“They shouldn’t be mad at you,” Gilbert said. “It’s my fault. If I had just—”

“No.” Francis put a finger to Gilbert’s lips. “It’s not your fault.” His hand dropped, and his boldness faded. Tears welled and his voice cracked into a whisper. “It’s no one’s fault.”

Gilbert’s other arm came around Francis and the two of them embraced while Francis wept quietly into Gilbert’s shoulder. Arthur looked away; it felt perverse, to watch this outpouring of emotion. It felt wrong to be here at all, but it would have felt more wrong to sit at home while this was happening.

They ended up sitting there in the hallway for half an hour, barely speaking, unsure what they were even waiting for. At one point, a passing nurse asked if they needed help with anything, if a doctor had been out to talk to them yet. At another point, Arthur got a text from his mother asking if they’d gotten any news. Eventually, Mikkel was too tortured to sit still any longer so he and Ludwig got up to bring back cups of water for everyone.

At eleven o’clock, Officer Beilschmidt texted to say he wanted Gilbert and Ludwig to come home.

At quarter after, Mrs. Kirkland texted to say she wanted Arthur and Mikkel to come home.

At midnight, Francis texted Arthur.

**He’s okay. They finally let**

**me see him.** **Couldn’t go in.**

**Stood in the door. He** **didn’t**

**know who I was. His mother**

**said** **I was nobody. Home now.**

**Going to bed.** **Too tired.**

**I’m sorry.**

**Me too.**


	11. June

And then it was the beginning of the end.

School was winding down. Mikkel tried to care about his exams. Arthur did his best to make him study. For the first time in months, they spent their lunches in the library, but now Gilbert and Francis joined them too. Francis was actually struggling more than Mikkel, which might have been morbidly encouraging if it wasn’t just plain morbid. He kept them updated each day on Antonio’s progress. _He’s stable. He’s feeling better. He’s been talking to psychiatrists. He’s at the clinic now._ None of them had been able to go visit him yet; he hadn’t been approved for visitors, apparently. He was at the closest facility, which was still over an hour’s drive away. _The good news,_ Francis said, _is his parents aren’t in charge of him there. So if he wants to see us, he can._ Mikkel gave him a side-hug when he said that. He’d forgotten how good optimism tasted.

Sometimes Mikkel felt like it was impossible, now, for him and Arthur to be happy at the same time. Ever since their fight, Arthur was smiles, jokes, playful yet meek touches. He was always dabbing at Mikkel’s wrists or tugging on his belt loops. Mikkel wished he’d been like this before, but he didn’t at the same time. This didn’t really feel like Arthur. This felt like an Arthur acting the way he _thought_ Mikkel wanted. Like he was on his Best Boyfriend Behavior.

Mikkel didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. He _did_ like it. He just wished he could be as happy as Arthur was, or at least as happy as he was acting. They hadn’t talked about it again, hadn’t confirmed to each other that they would be trying to maintain a long-distance relationship. For all Mikkel knew, Arthur felt the same way as he had before. And Mikkel . . .

The walk over to Gilbert’s place, and the hours lifting weights, and the shower, and the walk back home had given Mikkel lots of time to think. Arthur wanted them to break up—or not _break up_ but just sort of mutually call things off—for Mikkel’s sake, but maybe it should have been the reverse. Mikkel couldn’t see himself going off and meeting the gorgeous Scandinavians Arthur envisioned, but he could see Arthur in the library of a university, meeting the gaze of a handsome student a few shelves away. Not that he didn’t think Arthur could resist temptation, but he didn’t think Arthur should have to. After all this, after fighting to free himself from the invisible chains that told him _not good enough_ , to have him again hold himself back, waiting for some boyfriend on another continent, placing a new forcefield between himself and everyone else. And for how long? How long would it take Mikkel to be able to see him again, to be able to stay with him? He didn’t even know if it was possible at all. _Damn it._

He could see things from Arthur’s point of view, now. It didn’t look good, but it made sense.

* * *

Arthur got them all through their exams and Francis took them all on a visit to Antonio. The clinic was much nicer than the hospital. Everyone there was wearing sweatpants or leggings, including Antonio; perhaps that was why the place seemed so cozy. They didn’t get to see Antonio’s room. They got ushered into a small room with two couches and a coffee table with only a box of Kleenex on it, and a few minutes later Antonio himself came in.

“Hi, guys,” he said, with the crooked smile of old. “Sorry for the trek.”

“Shut up,” Gilbert said, and gave him a back-slapping hug. “And don’t ever fucking do that to me again. After this, it’s _your_ job to find _me_ on the floor. Never the other way around. Got that?”

“Got it,” Antonio said, laughing. He didn’t seem _wrong_ , just . . . soft. Softer than normal. He wasn’t wearing black, and he didn’t have his earring in, so maybe that was it. But there wasn’t any pain in his eyes, either. No darkness edged him. He was just . . . _Toni._

He offered his arms to Arthur and Mikkel, and both of them gave him a hug, though Mikkel saw Arthur holding back like he was afraid to squeeze him too tight. Mikkel clapped Antonio on the shoulder and Antonio clapped him right back. Mikkel didn’t know what he should say, and Antonio didn’t seem to know either. They shared a sheepish, rueful smile. _I should have. I shouldn’t have._ And in that moment: _It’s okay._

Bygones would be bygones.

Then it was just Francis. All the smiles faded. Antonio offered his arms, and Francis fell into them, and the pair of them held on so tight Antonio left red fingerprints on Francis’s skin. Francis said something into Antonio’s ear, but Mikkel thought it was in French. Maybe Spanish. Whatever it was, it had Antonio’s face crumpling into a relieved smile, and he nodded to Francis.

“Thank you,” he said, twining his fingers with Francis’s. His gaze drifted to the others. “Thank you. I’m gonna be here for a while, so I just wanna say this now. Uh. Thank you for putting up with me all this time. I know it was rough for a few months . . .”

Gilbert inclined his head. Arthur’s mouth quirked, pensive.

“. . . but I just want to say I’m sorry for all that, and I’m grateful you guys still care about me. I wouldn’t, after all that. I expected you guys to just call me a dick and move on.”

They all shook their heads at him.

“Idiot,” Arthur added, for good measure.

Antonio nodded. “I know. So. Thank you for that. For this. I’m not allowed to use my phone, but I can use the office one if I don’t get in any trouble, so I could maybe call you guys sometimes?”

“Of course,” Arthur and Gilbert said in unison.

“I’ll be here,” Francis said. “As much as I can. But still call me,” he added quickly.

Antonio grinned. “Okay. I will. . . . So, how bad did you guys do on your exams without me there to show you how it’s done?”

For once, Mikkel let the others do the talking and the laughing. He sat back with his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and he thought. Antonio was doing better here, that was obvious, and it was a beautiful thing to see. But the ramifications of it nagged in the back of Mikkel’s mind. Antonio had been kept in a muzzle, a ball and chain, a mask attached to the very skin of his face. He couldn’t be himself, because of his family and their faith. He’d tried opposing it, he’d tried numbing himself, he’d tried acquiescing, and all paths had led to this final destination.

It was a stretch, but now that Mikkel had begun this introspection, he couldn’t stop: what if he was doing to Arthur the very thing Antonio’s family had done to him? What if he was keeping Arthur in a cage? _If you can have happiness, if you can find it without me,_ he thought, watching his boyfriend smirk at some remark from Gilbert, _then do it. Don’t wait for me._

But they still had a handful of days left. Mikkel would make sure they were golden ones.

* * *

The last day of school was an early dismissal, because the seniors’ graduation ceremony was in the afternoon. Everyone else received their report cards, and so the group opened them at their usual table while they waited for the perpetually tardy buses to arrive. There was the moment of silence while they flipped through, past the behavioral nonsense on the front and to the grades on the second and third pages. Then they all looked up at each other.

“No Cs?” Gilbert asked.

“I got a 68 in math,” Alfred said.

Everyone gave concerned glances, Matthew most of all.

Alfred threw his report card up in the air; it danced back down, sweeping under the table. Alfred kept his hands up and cried, “Passing, baby!”

“Passing!” they echoed joyfully, and even Arthur was smiling.

Mikkel’s folder didn’t only have a report card in it. There were two actual cards, congratulatory ones. One had a happy puppy on the front, the other flowers and smiling bumblebees. One from his homeroom teacher, the other from the principal. Arthur read them both to him on the bus ride home. _“We hope you enjoyed your time in our school and our country. It has been a pleasure to have you. We know you will go on to do amazing things. Just don’t forget where you came from.”_

“That’s a joke, I think,” Arthur said. “It’s hard to tell, from academic types.”

“You’re an academic type,” Mikkel pointed out.

“Tsk.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t say it so loud.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Ha-ha.”

Mikkel traced shapes in the freckles on Arthur’s upper arm. It was too hot to wear anything but short sleeves, and it was maddening to be around so much of Arthur’s skin at all times. Less maddening than it would have been before, however. Before that night. Sometimes Mikkel got so caught up in remembering the fight, he totally forgot about the pure bliss he’d had before it. Yes, that night would be a memory he’d cherish, in all its imperfect glory. And Gilbert was right: he didn’t feel so restless anymore. He felt more sure of himself, sure that his touches to Arthur were enjoyed and appreciated. If he wasn’t leaving, he would be in heaven. His life wasn’t figured out, but his _life_ was.

He could see that reflected in Arthur, too. He didn’t cower away from people anymore. He didn’t feel any shame about leaning against Mikkel in public. He carried himself like someone who knew what his body was capable of, at last. That in itself was a turn-on that Mikkel was trying to get over. Shyness was adorable, but confidence was fucking murder.

* * *

The semi-formal was the next day (well, the next evening) but instead of going to Francis’s house with Arthur for yet another try-on-and-take-off of their rented tuxedos, Mikkel asked to be dropped off at Gilbert’s house instead. Ludwig opened the door for him. “Oh, hey.”

Mikkel smiled. He liked that Ludwig was matter-of-fact about his presence now. It had only taken five months. “Hey. Gil home?”

They kept the beater in the garage alongside their father’s SUV, because it _needs all the help it can get._ “Yeah, he’s here,” Ludwig said. “He’s in the basement.”

“Great.” He could use some exhaustion.

Down they went. Gilbert was benching, but he sat up when Mikkel greeted him. “Hey. Nice hair.”

Mikkel hadn’t even combed it today; he ran a hand through the tridirectional mess on top of his head. “Yeah, you too. You lifting without a spotter again?”

“Who, me?” Gilbert wiped wet bangs from his forehead with the back of his arm and leant to pick up his water bottle off the floor. “Nah. Never. I’m too responsible for something like that.”

Ludwig rolled his eyes while Gilbert chugged. “You’re not supposed to do that. You’ll get waterlogged.”

“That only matters if you’re doing cardio,” Gilbert protested, thumping the bottle back to the floor. “Fuck cardio.”

“I don’t mind cardio,” Mikkel remarked. He actually missed riding his bike around; his legs would be out of practise by the time he got back home and had to commute to work. Things were too far away here, though; it couldn’t be helped. And the Germans’ gym didn’t have so much as an elliptical, because leg day didn’t appear on their calendar apparently. “You’ll have a heart attack when you deadlift.”

“That’s why they call it deadlift,” Ludwig said, and Gilbert shot him a look that had him busying himself with reorganizing the weight rack. But he was smiling to himself, too.

“We’ll see,” Gilbert said. “Don’t lift too much, big guy. You’ll split your seams tomorrow night.”

That was a real concern for Ludwig and Gilbert. Ludwig especially had visibly bulked up since the beginning of the year, which Mikkel felt sure had something to do with Feliciano. If Mikkel’s boyfriend was that petite, he’d like being big and strong for him too. Arthur was _sort of_ like that, but mostly not. Mikkel didn’t have to be massive for him, even if Arthur wouldn’t have complaints. _I’m glad I got you,_ Arthur had said to him once when they were snuggling. _Can you imagine what Gilbert’s chest must feel like? Poor Matthew._ Mikkel still wasn’t sure how serious he’d been about that, but he agreed. Even now Gilbert’s chest was straining against his muscle shirt as he did another set. Mikkel stood spotting him and tried not to think about the fact that they may never do this again.

 _Maybe I could get Berwald to go to the gym with me._ It wouldn’t be even close to the same, and he knew it.

“Swap?” Gilbert asked when he was done.

“Fuck off,” Mikkel said, and all three of them laughed.

“Did you ever think,” Mikkel said half an hour later, when they were all taking a breather, “that you totally didn’t do your resolution?”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. He was dabbing more water onto his face from his water bottle. He couldn’t make his own sweat, but he could improvise. “What do you mean?”

“Your resolution was not to date anybody. But you have a boyfriend.”

Ludwig tensed; their father was off today and watching a documentary (fishing or trains or fishing on trains) upstairs. Gilbert didn’t seem to notice his brother’s reaction, but Mikkel offered a vaguely apologetic look. Neither of them had come out to their father yet. It wasn’t that they thought they’d get kicked out, necessarily, just that they didn’t know for sure. _I’m gonna do it first,_ Gilbert told Mikkel once. _For Lud’s sake. That way he’ll know. It’s not fair to him; I’ll be outta that house, ya know? I kinda wanna wait, though. Next year, when I’m eighteen. That way if I do have to leave, I don’t have to go into some fucking orphanage or whatever._ Mikkel wasn’t sure how such things worked in Canada, but he liked the plan regardless. It wasn’t like he could advise swift outcoming. Telling his parents wasn’t even close to his To-Do List.

_To-Do: decide how best to break your boyfriend’s heart._

_And purchase Canada souvenir for Tino._

“Yeah,” Gilbert said. “I guess when I said I didn’t want to date anymore, I just meant I didn’t want to date Liz anymore. She’s the only one I’ve ever been with, you know. It’s hard to branch out.”

“Especially here,” Ludwig remarked quietly. Gilbert nodded.

“That makes sense,” Mikkel said. He fiddled with the cap of his borrowed bottle. He couldn’t say if the others were doing any better with their resolutions. Arthur had said he wanted to write, but as far as Mikkel knew he hadn’t made any progress into that. And Francis wanted to take time for himself, which he had done for a while, but now he was back to again spending as much of his free time as possible with Antonio. Mikkel had never realized how big the gap was between what the things people said and the things people did.

“What about yours?” Gilbert was watching him, amused. “You been sharing your happy?”

Mikkel glanced up, sharper than he’d meant to. _No._ Not anymore. Not now that he was . . . _I hate that guy._

“I’m trying,” Mikkel said. He wouldn’t lie to his friends. “There hasn’t been a lot of happy to go around.”

“I know.” Gilbert’s mouth slanted. “But it’ll get better.”

Ludwig gave a small smile, and for one pure moment Mikkel had the fiercest yearning for a big brother.

Too soon, Arthur texted Mikkel to say they were on their way to get him. Gilbert followed Mikkel up to the door and stood there with him in the porch, toeing at a pebble that had fallen out of someone’s tread.

“I’ll see you at the prom, I guess,” Gilbert said at length. “Or the semi-formal. Whatever.”

Mikkel nodded.

They glanced at each other.

“C’mon,” Gilbert said, and wrestled him into a rough hug. “My phone plan isn’t international, but message me on Facebook or some shit. Don’t make me have to message you. You know I hate that.”

Mikkel didn’t know if _that_ was waiting for someone to contact him or just opening an app on his phone without a notification to do it for him, but he returned the hug and nodded when they’d pulled apart. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said, opening the door and hurrying out when he heard Francis’s horn honking. “I will.”

_Not lying to your friends, huh?_

* * *

As promised, Mrs. Kirkland hassled them for pictures. She made them get ready half an hour before they were planning to leave, so they could get _unrushed photos._ She put Mikkel and Arthur in every corner of the house, in the front yard, in the backyard. It was almost like saying a word over and over again until it meant nothing; Mikkel had never felt weird putting his arm around Arthur before, but after the hundredth time in five minutes it felt a little bizarre. Arthur was in less than a bright mood by the end of it.

“Oh, smile, Arthur,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “You’ll be happy to be able to look at these years from now.”

Mikkel and Arthur glanced at each other. This wasn’t something they could smirk about anymore. This was bittersweet, and Mikkel couldn’t bear to look at Arthur with that feeling in his chest. It felt too real. It felt like saying goodbye already.

Arthur offered half a smile, so Mikkel put on one of his own. Mrs. Kirkland kept snapping pictures—even one where Mikkel was pressing his lips to Arthur’s forehead which felt even more awkward—until she had to surrender them to Francis. When Mikkel saw the car, he finally smiled with ease.

Antonio leaned out the passenger window, grinning. “Hola.”

“An _ton_ io,” Arthur said grandly, and Mikkel realized—against all odds, despite the fact that there was photographic evidence of his recent scowls—he was actually happy. Or perhaps not happy, but . . . he was feeling. Mikkel had always had a hard time putting into words the way Arthur worked, but that was as close as he could get: when Arthur allowed himself to truly feel, he felt everything, intensely. Mikkel felt like his emotions were half the size, and served on separate plates most of the time. It was easier, true, but was it ultimately better? Whatever the case, Arthur’s eyes were bright and he was beautiful as he climbed into the backseat beside Mikkel. “Aren’t you looking spiffy. In a bowtie, no less.”

Antonio twisted in his seat and waggled his eyebrows at them. “Fran broke me out of prison and got me all sexy and smellin’ good.”

“Oh, my God, are you serious?” Arthur made a show of leaning forward and wafting at him. “You’re not wearing AXE anymore?”

“Really?” Mikkel had to lean forward and check for himself. “He’s not!”

Antonio beamed. “Fancy cologne.”

“It’s not that fancy,” Francis said. “It’s just one I wear sometimes. They aren’t allowed strong fragrances at the clinic. I still can’t believe they agreed to this . . .”

Mikkel glanced toward the driver’s seat but Francis was keeping his eyes on the road. He sounded like Mikkel felt: the most peculiar mix of happy and sad. Happy tonight was happening, sad it was ending. Happy to be with his love, sad about the circumstances. Mikkel had felt the most distant from Francis, in the beginning of all this, but perhaps that was a miscalculation, a poor judgement on his part. Now, Mikkel knew the difficulty of the task Francis faced every day for the past months. Feeling your heart slowly tear itself to pieces, but endeavoring not to let any blood spatters show on his face.

_I hate this guy. I hate this guy._

“Believe it!” Antonio filled the whole car with his energy. This was an Antonio Mikkel had just barely gotten glimpses of in September. This was the real him. “I’m out for good behavior, and I’m gonna partaaaay!”

“I’m already exhausted,” Arthur mumbled into Mikkel’s ear.

He laughed, and it felt like the first time he’d laughed in ages. _Oh, right, this. Nice._ That was the feeling, he decided right then and there, he would feel tonight. No more moaning and whining. No more dark clouds. He was in a tux, his boyfriend was in a tux, and they were going to prom together. He was going to live tonight like the incredible thing that it was.

He kissed Arthur on the cheek, and when his head turned kissed him again, full on the mouth. Arthur grabbed at Mikkel’s lapel, then softened into the kiss, and Mikkel had to break it off because he was smiling too much.

Antonio wolf-whistled from the front seat. “Damn, Mick, you’re an animal.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows at Mikkel, at once an appreciation and a question.

Mikkel smiled big enough so they could both see it and Francis could probably feel it on the back of his head. “I’m not an animal. I’m a god.”

 _“Of thundaaaaah!”_ cried Antonio, and beat out an impromptu drum solo on the dash.

Arthur shook his head and looked out the window, but he was smiling.

* * *

The theme for this year’s semi-formal, much to Francis’s chagrin, was _under the sea._ The other option, _love in Paris_ , had been voted out by the prom committee because they wanted to use the backdrops they’d kept from two years ago. _Hoarders,_ Francis pronounced. _Uninspired hoarders with no taste._ Arthur raised an eyebrow as they got out of the car. _Are hoarders generally known for their taste?_ Francis hadn’t even scoffed, just brushed the ruffles of his gown.

Yes, that was certainly something: Francis was wearing a dress. He was wearing it quite well, too, not that Mikkel knew anything about what dresses should look like. The top half was fitted and the bottom was loose, swaying and swishing when Francis walked. It hung down to the middle of his shins, and Mikkel eyeing his ankles as they walked toward the school doors, trying to catch a glimpse of his skin. _Did he shave?_ It didn’t matter, obviously, but Mikkel still found himself profoundly curious. Francis wasn’t close enough with him to discuss gender-related things. Arthur hadn’t really spoken much about it either, not that Mikkel had probed him with questions. More like _You look pretty in that shirt. Oh. Can I call you pretty?_

Arthur didn’t look pretty tonight. He looked dashing, dandy, dignified. _Handsome._

Judging by the looks Arthur kept giving him, Mikkel must have been somewhere close to that himself. He thought the tuxedo was a bit uncomfortable, to be honest, hard to move in, but if it gave Arthur those eyes—if he were a cartoon character, they’d be shaped like hearts—he’d happily take the sacrifice.

The walls were decorated with rather tacky paintings of underwater scenes, rippling seaweed and dotted fish, and there were not one but _two_ bubble machines going, in the hall and in the gym. They’d brought the light machine back—the blue and green strobes far more suited to under the sea than to winter wonderland—and there was an area set up near the music room for taking pictures. (Alfred was over there with two boys Mikkel thought were on the robotics team with him; they were posing with rubber fish masks and seashell bras.) There were almost no grads here, which meant Lars was off partying with them somewhere, which was good news as far as Mikkel was concerned. The food tables were laden with real dried seaweed (not for eating, though it hadn’t stopped some people) and endless blue-frosted cupcakes.

“They should have had crab,” Mikkel said. He didn’t know the words for the foods he was picturing in English. “They could have had lots of things.”

“Allergies,” Francis said with an apologetic smile, as if it was his fault. “No shellfish, no nuts.”

Mikkel shook his head. Arthur patted it, to make him feel better. It worked.

They each had the obligatory cupcake, and some blue liquid that Mikkel found almost irredeemably sweet. “Holy _shit_ ,” Antonio said after he’d sipped it. “Is this Kool-Aid?”

“I think it has Kool-Aid in it,” Arthur said. “But it’s fizzy.”

 _Fizzy._ Mikkel smiled to himself.

“Is it Sprite?” Francis stared at the cup like it might then be persuaded to reveal its secrets. “Sprite mixed with Kool-Aid?”

“I haven’t had this in _years_ , man.” Antonio held his cup to his heart. “This is childhood.”

Francis and Arthur got matching nostalgic looks, and they all had a moment of appreciative sipping. Then they realized Mikkel was just staring at them, and Antonio broke the silence: “You didn’t drink this as a kid?”

Mikkel shook his head. “Not that I know of. But it’s not bad,” he added, just to keep their eyes soft behind rose-tinted glasses.

Gilbert pounced on him when they ventured into the gym. “We meet again,” he said, grinning. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a dress shirt and pants. And dress shoes, as well, unlike Alfred who was running around in slacks and sneakers. “Have you seen Matthew?”

“No,” Mikkel replied. “Is he not here yet?”

But it was lost, because Gilbert was raising his voice over the music: “Antonio! Where the hell did you come from?”

Antonio allowed his head to be gently noogied before he stood up straight. “I’m a good Christian boy, so I made it to heaven.”

That took a moment to sink in, first in a macabre way, then as a compliment. Mikkel wondered if maybe this was why Antonio had almost gotten away with it; it wasn’t unheard of, even when he was happy, for him to say some weird shit. 

“Well, congratulations,” Gilbert said. “But I wouldn’t call this heaven. I don’t see any angels.”

He was looking at Arthur, who smirked when he noticed. “Where’s your love interest? You can’t tell me you didn’t drive him here in your limo.”

“I didn’t, actually. He came with Alfred.” He took his phone out. “He said he was coming, like, three minutes ago. He probably got talking to somebody.”

A slow song started, and couples began their slow motion rotation in the center of the gym. Antonio threaded his fingers with Francis’s. Francis looked at him in surprise, then gently smiled, and the pair of them wandered off to dance. Mikkel thought there was more space between them than the other couples—until he saw Ludwig, who was practically keeping Feliciano at arm’s length on the other side of the gym. Mikkel smiled to himself. _Just don’t step on his feet._

“I’m gonna duck out for a second,” Arthur said, drawing Mikkel and Gilbert’s attention. “I’ll rescue Matthew if he needs it.”

He left before either of them could get a response out. Gilbert raised an eyebrow. “Is he nervous?”

Mikkel’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. He didn’t seem like that . . .”

But what Arthur _seemed_ like was of course quite far removed from what he really was. Mikkel tried to think of some graceful way to half-apologize for abandoning Gilbert here, but he just nodded to him. “Better go, before anything gets serious.”

Mikkel inclined his head gratefully to him and hurried out. He looked down the hall, toward the bathrooms, but he didn’t see anything (well, except Matthew and Alfred taking pictures). He turned his attention in the other direction, toward the office and the doors. There was Arthur, pushing his way outside. Mikkel followed.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder sharply, then relaxed a bit when he saw who it was. He didn’t say a word, though, just led the way round to the back of the school and over to the basketball court. All of this looked so different under a setting sun. Mikkel looked down at their shadows for a moment, seeing a glimpse of the many-legged beast they became when they leapt around this asphalt after the ball. No such excitement now. No one else, now, just him and Arthur standing in the center circle.

“Sorry,” Arthur said, and that was when Mikkel realized he was trying not to cry. “I didn’t expect it to happen that fast.”

Mikkel closed the distance between them but didn’t touch him yet. “What to happen?”

Arthur shrugged, looking across the soccer field with reddening eyes. “To remember you’re leaving. And this is it. It’s not even a big deal. It’s not even prom. It’s just a stupid dance.” He heaved a fifty-pound sigh. “This is why I don’t go to these things. They turn me into a middle-aged woman at a wedding.”

Mikkel lifted a hand now, just to brush his thumb near the corner of Arthur’s eye. “You’ll smudge.”

Arthur smiled at that, rueful. “Yeah.”

“We shouldn’t talk about all that,” Mikkel told him. It was better that way. “Be happy tonight.”

“Easier said than done.” Arthur stepped back, and Mikkel followed him, so he kept walking backward, off the pavement and onto the grass. “Maybe I lied. Maybe I’m just upset because I really hate pop music. It’s like cutting onions.”

Mikkel smiled, but it felt light. It felt like the fading sky overhead. “That’s probably it. I’m not worth crying over.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened, but his smile stayed. “Now you’re the one lying.”

He turned around then, because they were almost to the trees. There was less light in here, but Arthur was not afraid of spooky forests. These were his natural habitat. In they went, grass and brambles swiping at their pant legs. Mikkel ducked under a branch, then another. Arthur reached up to brush the leaves out of his hair.

They stood together there, hip-to-hip, looking back toward the school. It felt far more distant than it was, a world they’d left behind, a photograph of something that no longer existed. It felt like a figment, anyway, being at this daytime place as the sun ducked below the horizon. It felt like how Mikkel would picture it, once he was gone.

Arthur rested his forehead on Mikkel’s shoulder. He sighed.

Mikkel sighed, too.

Crickets started singing, or maybe frogs. Mikkel could never tell the difference.

Arthur wasn’t doing a good job of stifling the tears, or maybe he wasn’t even trying anymore. For the first time, Mikkel felt tears of his own pricking at his eyes. When was the last time he’d cried? He remembered deciding he wouldn’t cry anymore. He remembered Berwald breaking his ankle during a soccer match and marvelling at how stoic he stayed through the whole thing. Berwald and Tino hadn’t had a lot of fights, but they happened. Tino cried about them; he usually did it into Mikkel’s chest. So maybe Mikkel was a wimp.

_That guy._

Mikkel cupped Arthur’s face so he could kiss him, first his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. Somewhere along the line he’d gotten tears on his lips, and they both tasted the salt, but it was impossible to say who they’d come from.

They’d danced to the sound of the stars and the snow, but they didn’t dance now. They just held each other tight, close, as close as they could possibly get. Arthur still tried to get closer, his leg slipping between Mikkel’s, his hands moving down from his chest to his belt. Mikkel’s body said _oh!_ and then _yes!_ but he grabbed Arthur’s wrists.

“No.” He tried to look into his eyes, but Arthur was too close. “Not here. Don’t be silly.”

But it didn’t feel silly.

Arthur’s face was in his neck now, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t even kiss him. Just stood there, and after a moment Mikkel felt him trembling so he put his arms around him again. He knew it was _need_ , but it wasn’t that sort of need. This was the same nameless need that drove people to eat themselves sick or drink themselves dead. It wasn’t anything physical needed, was the problem. It was a happy ending, and you couldn’t just get one of those. There was no way to know you had one, Mikkel realized, until the story was over. Only in retrospect could you actually know what the ending even was, let alone if it was a good one.

He was starting to see where Antonio was coming from.

“We were supposed to be happy tonight,” Mikkel said. “Now look at us.”

“What are you talking about.” Arthur sniffled. “All we’re missing is a white picket fence and we’re practically a drug commercial.”

Mikkel smiled against his hair. “I love you.”

“That was where you went wrong.”

He had to laugh at that, because he was done crying. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Arthur pulled back to see if he was serious, and started to smile—until he saw the state of Mikkel’s shirt. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. Mikkel looked down to see the streaks of teary eyeliner Arthur had left on the white of his dress shirt. “Well, fuck.”

“It’ll wash out,” Mikkel said. “Probably.”

“Is there even any left on my face?”

“A little.”

Arthur took his phone out of his pocket to try and use it as a mirror, then shoved it right back in. “Fuck it.” He buttoned Mikkel’s jacket up until the mess was covered. “There.” He dragged a hand through his hair, hair that had been slicked back but was definitely not anymore. He looked more himself that way. He looked flawed, alive. “Alright. Let’s get back in there.” 

“You don’t have to,” Mikkel told him.

“Yes, I do.” Arthur glanced up at him, eyes fierce, smirk poking a tiny dimple. “I need another fucking cupcake.”

* * *

Francis offered to bring them back home first, but they both wanted to see Antonio off. It made the night last longer; it made two more hours before the school year was truly over, in their eyes. Tomorrow was the end. Tomorrow was the day Mikkel would have to pack his bags. Tomorrow was the prologue to The End.

It had been a good while since Mikkel was in a car this late at night. He kept fading in and out of a mental no man’s land, going back and forth between listening to Francis’s music (almost identical to the playlist they’d had at the dance) and spacing out to the reflective guard rails and road signs whipping by. He’d never noticed before, but if you watched the big signs, at just the last moment the headlights of the car rippled in a rainbow across the surface—then the sign was gone forever. It was a pleasant surprise, a lovely farewell from the humble road signs.

“I’m going crazy, I think,” Mikkel said.

“I know a doctor that can fix you right up,” Antonio said, and laughed.

Arthur didn’t say anything. Mikkel didn’t know how he was even wearing his seatbelt; he was diagonal across the backseat, leant into Mikkel as much as he possibly could. He hadn’t spoken since they left town. Mikkel could just see the outline of his face, green in the lights from the dash. _I like your nose,_ he thought. _I never told you I like your nose._

They were beyond that, probably.

“We’re almost there,” Francis said, relieved and sorrowful at the same time.

“Did you enjoy your night of freedom, Toni?” Mikkel asked, just to have something to say.

“Sure did,” Antonio replied. “I wish I snuck some cookies out, though. The food there sucks.”

“I’ll bring you some,” Francis told him. “Next time I visit. If I’m allowed.”

“I’ll have to ask ’em. There’s a pretty one I’ve been sweet-talkin’ . . .”

Part of Mikkel wanted to ask what all those looks between Antonio and Francis meant. Were they together? Were they still _going slow_? Was this the straw that finally broke the camel’s back? Had either of them learned that you had to be a whole yourself before you could let someone else be your other half?

_Not true. Arthur . . ._

But maybe it was true.

Mikkel let his head fall against the window. He just wanted to stop thinking. He hadn’t thought about this the whole school year, contrary to Arthur’s advice. Perhaps he’d walked right into this. He was taking in ten months’ worth of angst all at once, and he was gagging.

The clinic had its front lights on, but all the room lights along the side were off. “They can’t be mad,” Antonio said, “they said I could stay out ’til ten. It’s not ten yet.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble,” Francis said. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“Nah, that’s okay.” Antonio leaned toward him, just a little.

Francis didn’t move to meet him. He just sat, still, watching. Smiling, with a tinge of sadness in his eyes if Mikkel wasn’t mistaken.

Antonio nodded, just a little bit. He smiled too, with the same eyes. Then he turned around in his seat. “Well, uh. I guess this is the last I’ll see of you for a while.”

Arthur sat up straight, so Mikkel did too. He’d forgotten this part, somehow. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I guess so.”

Antonio’s mouth pressed thin for a moment, then curled. “Well. Good luck with wherever you’re headed, man. I hope it’s sunny days.”

“Yes.” Mikkel offered a hand. “Sunny days for you, too.”

They shook, firmly, and then Antonio performed a complicated _bro_ sort of thing with Mikkel’s hand that fizzled out by the end. “I’m working on it,” he said. “So you gotta come back someday so we can do it right. I’m holding you to that!” He opened his door, but leaned back. “Arthur.”

“Antonio,” Arthur said.

They narrowed their eyes at each other, then smirked in unison.

“Stay gay,” Antonio said.

“Stay sober,” Arthur said.

Francis shot Arthur a look in the rearview mirror, but Antonio just crossed himself and gave them all an amiable wave before he trotted up the steps and disappeared into the clinic. Francis waited until he was safely inside, then waited some more. They sat through half a Taylor Swift song in silence.

“So that’s that,” Mikkel said. “We did it.”

Arthur glanced up at him. He hadn’t said it in a way that showed how he felt, mostly because he was getting to be too tired to speak expressively. He’d been living in wholesome hours all year; his body was betraying him. He couldn’t stay up all night without feeling it. He wondered if Berwald was the same way. He’d rejected Mikkel’s last offer to go to a party, after all, in favor of spending the night with Tino, who had never been drunk in his life. Berwald didn’t _need_ to go to parties anymore. _Neither do I._

“Yeah,” Arthur said. His voice was thinner, with the rasp he’d gotten when they whispered to each other each night of Christmas break. “We did it.” He took Mikkel’s hand, clumsily. “Home, s’il vous plaît.”

“Make sure he’s breathing, Mikkel,” Francis said as he pulled back onto the road. “He’s speaking French, he must be delirious.”

“Put a rock station on,” Mikkel advised.

“Eugh. I don’t love him that much.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, but when a car met them, Mikkel saw his smile in the glare of the headlights.

* * *

Francis rolled down his window when they were standing in the driveway. “Don’t be a stranger, mon ami.”

Mikkel could only incline his head. He had no idea how Francis didn’t look exhausted. Maybe he was wearing too much makeup for it to show. Francis crooked a finger so Mikkel bent down to have a light kiss pressed to each of his cheeks. Then he held his gaze, blue and blue, and Mikkel felt like some message was being passed to him, but in a language he didn’t understand.

“Good night,” Francis said eventually, reaching down to recline his seat a bit.

“Good night,” Mikkel and Arthur echoed.

Francis blew them both a kiss, then rolled his window back up and left them in the dark and quiet. Arthur pushed the door open and tripped over the mat. Mikkel caught him even though he’d already steadied himself against the wall.

Arthur sighed.

“I know,” Mikkel agreed.

They kicked off their shoes and staggered upstairs. Mrs. Kirkland wasn’t waiting up for them; Arthur’s brothers had come home today, so they’d probably tired her out. Mikkel had planned on just crashing on the couch tonight. He’d _planned_ , ages ago, that they’d have a romantic evening at the dance and then an even more romantic night in the living room before Mikkel carried Arthur up to bed. Reality was not so rosy. Reality was Arthur unbuttoning them both and hanging up their tuxes in his closet, then the pair of them falling into bed in their underwear. Mikkel tugged the blanket over them.

They breathed.

Arthur curled so his head rested on Mikkel’s chest. “I didn’t think.” His voice thinned to nothing, like he had to clear it. He did, but the next words still came out feathery. “I didn’t think this would happen again.”

Mikkel didn’t ask what he meant. He just rested a hand on the back of Arthur’s head and smoothed his thumb again and again over the fine hairs on the nape of his neck, the softest part of him. “One last time.”

Arthur reached for his free hand. He didn’t take it or twine their fingers, just rested his own over Mikkel’s, warm on warm. “One last time.”

Mikkel couldn’t be sure if Arthur fell asleep first, or if he himself did. But when he woke, he was alone.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Tino and Berwald were blowing up his phone with excited messages, preemptively welcoming him home and saying they were so excited to talk about things even though they’d been talking to him ever since he left. Francis had already sent him a GIF of a waving cat on Facebook. Alfred has posted a goodbye status for him. Ludwig, inexplicably, had poked him. Mikkel wondered if Gilbert had told him to, since he was the only one giving radio silence.

And Mikkel’s parents, of course, had been nagging him nonstop, ensuring he knew the timing for his flight and the proper places to go and not to talk to strangers, which he thought was pushing it and said so. _You’ll be at an airport, Mikkel,_ his mother said. _There won’t just be Canadians there. Be careful. Don’t take any taxi rides!_

Mikkel couldn’t imagine someone wanting to go to the trouble of kidnapping him, especially not know. Even the Kirkland brothers had given him weird looks that morning. _You okay?_ that from Liam, whispering. _You didn’t get into anything last night, did you?_ Dylan had just shaken his hand and said it was a pleasure to meet him— _and thanks for not making a mess of my room, I appreciate that._ Scott had surprised them all by yanking Mikkel into a rough embrace. He’d taken advantage of the closeness to hiss into Mikkel’s ear: _Don’t fuck this up._ Then he stepped back and clapped Mikkel on the shoulder. _Nice meeting ya, Grendel._

The drive to the airport was a lot shorter than Mikkel remembered it being, but it always felt like that way on the way back. He could tell Arthur was getting secondhand anxiety on his mother’s behalf as she navigated the car toward the drop-off area. Everything was labelled neatly with signs Mikkel could just about read, if he didn’t pay attention to anything else. So long as he said the flight number over and over again in his head, he’d be alright.

“You’re sure you’re alright going through it all by yourself?” Mrs. Kirkland asked as the car slowed to a stop.

What she meant was _are you sure you’re alright waiting in line by yourself_ because beyond that Mikkel would be doing the process solo anyway. Still, he appreciated the offer. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine.” He hopped out of the car and went round to unload his bags from the back. He only had two, the big suitcase his father had lent him and his backpack which he slung over his shoulder. Then he was standing there in a ten-minute zone with nine minutes left and two Kirklands watching him with matching bright green eyes.

Mrs. Kirkland broke the silence. She stepped forward and hugged Mikkel, the odd sort of hug where their fronts didn’t touch but he still felt the love of it. Then she put an envelope into the front pocket of his backpack. “Just a little something I wrote for you,” she told him. “I’ll be repeating myself, but I’ll tell you now as well. It’s been an absolute pleasure having you stay with us, and I hope you feel the same. My phone number is in the letter and probably in your phone, as well, so if you ever need . . . if you ever feel the need to speak to me, just ring me up. And don’t fret about time zones. Any time at all, dear.”

He smiled. _Thanks, Mum._ “Thank you, Mrs. Kirkland. That means a lot. And thank you for keeping me. You were really nice and . . . it was perfect. Thank you.”

She patted his cheek, then glanced back at Arthur. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Arthur waited until the car door had closed to throw his arms around Mikkel. He actually stumbled back a step before he returned the embrace, face in Arthur’s hair. They weren’t alone, not hardly—at the very least, they were being recorded from multiple security cameras—but Arthur didn’t care. He stretched up to kiss him, then kissed him again. He tasted like the apple juice he’d gotten from Tim’s on the way here. Mikkel hoped he himself still tasted like Boston cream. He’d like their last kiss to be sweet.

Arthur pulled back just as abruptly as he’d come forward. “Here.” He stuffed a folded envelope in with Mrs. Kirkland’s. “Read it on the plane. Or wherever. But.” He shook his head, looking down at the pavement. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

His voice wasn’t shaking, though. He wasn’t crying. He’d done all that last night, and they were in public now. He might collapse in a puddle of tears when he got home, but he wouldn’t do it here. The only thing upset about him was his eyes, luminescent with pain.

“I love you,” Mikkel told him. He took his hand, gently, cupping it. Holding it with the care of something borrowed, something he would have to give back, something that no longer belonged to him. “Thank you.”

Arthur glanced up at him with that fierce mask of a face. His eyeliner was so thick today, it was like storm clouds looming over his freckles. “What are you thanking me for?”

“For this year.”

Arthur shook his head— _too cheesy for him_ —and surprised him a little by saying, “I should be the one thanking you. You helped me . . . I didn’t give you anything this year.”

His voice had gotten just that _tiny_ bit thinner before he changed course, but Mikkel could never be cruel enough to press him. He just smiled and said, “You gave me lots. You made me happy.”

And then, even though Arthur’s eyes were on him and his fingers were holding tight to him, it was time. Mikkel grabbed the handle of his suitcase and—

And—

Arthur let go.

* * *

He didn’t look back as he walked away. He heard the passenger door close and the car driving away, and that was all he could bear.

_That’s it. That’s all._

Once upon a time airports made him feel overly present—to the point where he always felt muzzy afterward—with all of their sights and sounds and people and _have all your information ready_ and signs and lights and dogs in smart vests. But there was none of that today. Well, there was all of it, but it didn’t feel real. Everything was muffled, even the voice of the guy who asked for his passport barely two feet from his face. He floated through it all with blurred eyes and muted ears. He was genuinely surprised when he ended up at the right gate.

He’d been hungry when they started out, but he wasn’t anymore. He pretended it was the donut and almost believed himself. Nothing else tempted him—this place was sort of pathetic—so he sat down and pulled the envelopes from his bag. He opened the one from Mrs. Kirkland first. It was sealed all the way across, so he made a mess tearing it open. Sort of odd; he couldn’t imagine her licking an envelope, or anything. Didn’t seem dignified enough. Maybe she’d just wetted her finger and rubbed it across, but even then . . .

_Stop stalling._

He unfolded the letter. Just one page, and handwritten of course. _Oh, well._ He had plenty of time to kill. The first part was easy, _Dear Mikkel._ Then the cursive was all sweeping and swooping, no better than the paths all the travelers were trailing around him. But, no: it _was_ different, because this actually mattered. This was all he had left. So he forced himself to read.

_Dear Mikkel,_

_I don’t know when you’ll be reading this letter, but I wish you a safe flight home. I’m sure your family and friends will be delighted to see you again. You’re a wonderful, bright person and I’m honored to have been your teacher, and the head of your host family. I see many exciting things in your future. You are full of life and compassion, and you’ll spread that kind energy wherever you go._

_If you’d like to stay in touch, my phone number and email address are below. I’d love to know hear about your academic achievements next year. I know you haven’t yet made plans for your future, but it will come in time. Please don’t let anyone rush you. Only you will know when you’re ready to make changes, and I wish you the wisdom and courage to do so._

_All that’s left to tell you is to be yourself, because there’s no better person for you to be._

_With love,_

_Faye Kirkland_

Mikkel realized he’d never considered that Mrs. Kirkland might have a first name. Or that she cared this deeply about him, but of course she did. He’d said it himself, at the start of this whole thing: _She’s a good mum._

He tenderly folded the letter back up into thirds and slipped it into the ruins of the envelope. He’d find a better way to store it once he got home. Once he hugged Tino and Berwald, stoicism be damned. Once his mother had kissed his cheek and his father had given him another rant about how he’d better get right to work and start paying him back for the cost of that wasted plane ticket. Once he’d crashed and slept off all of this . . . everything.

He thought about waiting to read Arthur’s letter on the plane, or when he got home, or never.

_Who are you kidding?_

He tore this envelope open more ferociously than the first. Papers scattered, on his lap and at his feet. The letter itself was only one page, but Athur had included two pieces of green construction paper as well. _Your favorite color._ Mikkel’s heart resembled the envelopes, but he put the construction paper into place and slowly began to read.

_Hello._

_So. Here we are. The apocalypse._

_Look, I don’t want to be dramatic about this. I’ve probably already been absolutely horrible for you to deal with. I’m writing this on prom night. You’re getting changed, or maybe you’re finished and waiting for me. You look great in your tux, by the way. Completely out of my league, but you knew that already._

_I’m probably going to drive you away for good tonight. I hope I do._

_If I do make you hate me and never want to see me again, good. Splendid. Stop reading this right now and throw it out. Safe travels. Bye._

_If you do actually care about me still, for whatever reason, then I guess I should be honest with you. You know I hate doing that, but since it’s a special occasion I suppose I can try. So, where to start. I love you. Duh. We’ve covered that. I’m in love with you and I’m incredibly grateful to you. You took me out of my shell and showed me how not to hate the world so much, and I appreciate that. I wouldn’t have done it on my own. I would’ve gone through my last year of high school as a miserable fringe creature and then I would’ve gotten myself into the same vicious cycle in university. So thank you for breaking that. I have a friend family again, and you gave me that._

_And I don’t hate myself very much anymore. I actually sort of like me. You gave me that, too._

_I know we sort of talked about this, and I know you wanted to try having a long distance relationship. I’m not against it anymore. I think it is most likely doomed, but I think maybe we should try anyway. If it makes both of us happy, then maybe it becomes worth the risk._

_I’ll try, if you want to. But if you don’t want to bother with me after all this—and I don’t blame you for that in the slightest—then don’t. If you get home and decide you don’t want to wait for me, I understand._

_Yours truly,_

_Arthur_

Mikkel breathed in, then out, then in again.

He wanted to read it over again, but his eyes or his brain or both wouldn’t cooperate, so he just stared down at Arthur’s name. This was the part of the story where he would leap up, run back through the airport, dodging businessmen and concerned security guards, and use the money in his pocket to get a cab back to that little town two hours away. He would run up the driveway and crash through the door and grab Arthur and they would live happily ever after . . .

Mikkel’s phone buzzed. _1 new message._

He turned it off.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lovely brain vacation. My thanks to anyone who enjoyed my self-indulgence x3

Scott wouldn’t stop nagging at him to get a job. Liam was so sick of it, he was the one who shoved the regional library application under Arthur’s door. It had already been filled out, apart from the signature at the bottom, courtesy of Dylan. Their mother drove Arthur there for the interview, even though she’d been ostensibly busy in the garden when he brought the form to her.

As it turned out, their local library was hardly trafficked enough to need a librarian, let alone a summer student to help out, but she was kind about it. _We never say no to volunteers. You can help me keep the place clean. There are some places I can’t get to, with my knees the way they are._

So he volunteered at the library four days a week. He never had to ask anyone for a ride; Scott and Liam actually argued over the privilege one morning. Dylan was always sneaking encouraging smiles at their mother over dinner when Arthur found the energy to describe his day to them.

He liked it, really. He loved being around the books, even if they didn’t have sliding ladders attached to their shelves. He liked the regulars, especially the daycare ladies who walked the little tots over for a story. He even liked the cramped back room, despite how musty and dusty it was. He spent a lot of his time back there, standing on the chair to get rid of decades of cobweb, shoving a broom into the nooks and crannies, trying to figure out what old papers he could get rid of without destroying the world. It was still quite lonely, but it was better than sitting in his room.

He hadn’t spent any time with his friends yet. July had come and gone. Francis had asked him to hang out more than once, but Arthur used the library as an excuse. _Sorry. Busy._ Understanding. Postponing. Forgetting? Possibly. Francis was working at one of the art galleries in town. Gilbert was doing a placement at the police station. Antonio was still at the clinic, but he’d been spending weekends with Francis or Gilbert, judging by the pictures they were posting. The only difference now, it occurred to Arthur as he sat in the back room and ignored his lunch in favor of scrolling listlessly on his phone, was that he actually liked their social media posts. It felt slightly less stalkerish than where he’d been last summer.

It was his fault. They were making an effort. He wasn’t even meeting them halfway. Who could blame them for drifting?

 _You asked for this._ That was what he kept telling himself. Also: _It’s for the best._

He was still working on believing that. He hadn’t made much progress.

His lunch was judging him, so he sighed and unzipped his bag. He didn’t have any interest in the sandwich, but cookies hadn’t yet betrayed him. He set one down on the cluttered counter and took a bite from the other.

“You wanna share?”

For a split second, he thought he might actually choke to death on this bite of cookie and he would have the most pathetic story anyone had ever heard in hell. Then he managed to get it down and whirled.

Mikkel stood in the doorway. Eyes bright, but hesitant. Smile widening, but quirking, unsure of itself. Flannel tucked into khakis. All of him _glowing._ He looked so grown up and so real . . . or maybe Arthur had just forgotten what he looked like.

“What the fuck,” Arthur said, but it was the tiniest of whispers. He was too happy. He was too afraid.

“Hi,” Mikkel said, smile tugging. “Your brothers said you’d be here.”

Arthur stared. “I can’t—what the _fuck._ You never texted me . . .”

Mikkel nodded. His smile faded. “I know. I thought you were right. I thought I could give you a better chance at happiness if I stopped.” His accent was thick again, like it had been in September. “But then Tino sat me down and he said I was depressed and he was worried about me. And I realized I was. And the only way to fix it is to talk to you.”

_“You could have called.”_

Mikkel flapped a hand. “Nobody likes talking on the phone. So I texted your mum and I talked to her about you and she said she was worried too. So I came. And now I need to ask you something.”

Arthur picked up a massive dictionary. “If you propose to me right now, I will beat you to death with this.”

Mikkel tipped his head back to laugh. Oh, that _laugh._ “No. No. Not that. Just.” He stepped closer but didn’t touch, just looked down into Arthur’s eyes with his twinkling ones. “Do you still want me?”

Arthur slowly let the dictionary fall back onto the counter. He’d never heard a more foolish question. “Of course I still want you.”

Mikkel’s smile was working its magic across his face. “Do you still love me?”

Arthur opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Why is this any different than before? You still live over there. We still have—”

“They’re working it all out,” Mikkel said, so fast some of his letters were entirely wrong. “They have the funding and the whatever to do, and it’s early, but I spoke to the important people myself, and my teachers and my parents came too, and they all said it would be okay. I’m getting a head start.”

Arthur put his hands on his chest. “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

The warmth that came into his eyes when Arthur touched him was intoxicating. “I’ll graduate with you. I mean, not really, it will still have to be at home. But I’ll be here. And then I’ll be here again. It will all work out.”

 _It will all work out._ Arthur couldn’t just believe that . . . but when had Mikkel ever lied to him?

“What about . . . your parents,” he tried, “they don’t know, do they? About me?”

Mikkel nodded. “I told them everything. They said they wanted me to be happy. I don’t think my dad likes it, but that’s not our problem.”

Arthur shook his head. All of this should have been too much, and yet somehow he didn’t feel overwhelmed or stressed. His mind wasn’t racing through all this information, frantically calculating all the different ways things could go wrong. He was just _here_ , and he was—happy.

“Okay,” Arthur said softly.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Mikkel said, arms slipping around him.

“Oh, fine.” Arthur looked up at him and finally let himself smile. “I love you.”

Mikkel grinned, and they kissed, and it was worth the wait.

  
  
  


_The End._


End file.
